


Thirty

by Aishuu



Series: Dross [5]
Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-04 21:58:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 33,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4154520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aishuu/pseuds/Aishuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trouble comes in threes, as Tezuka is about to find out. As he stares down thirty with a week to spare, Tezuka's life is about to get entirely rearranged.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bury My Past in the Depth of the Sea

**Author's Note:**

> Reminder, the views of the character do not reflect the views of the writer.

The thing about being single and rich was that people felt compelled to match make to perfect your life, Tezuka Kunimitsu had long ago realized. Apparently there was some kind of unwritten rule that stated that being single meant that you were doomed to a life of lonely despair, and therefore it was the duty of everyone else to rectify the situation. It didn't matter if you protested you were happy as you were, because you really didn't know what you were missing.

Tezuka was, by nature, a retiring personality. He didn't date, he didn't socialized unless forced to, and he was happiest when left alone. He wasn't exactly anti-social; it was more that he found other people tiring.

Especially woman.

If they weren't throwing themselves at him, they were throwing their friends at him. He knew most considered him good looking and with his position he was definitely able to promise them a secure future, but he found them grating. Most of them were brainless twits, and the ones that weren't tended to irritate him for other reasons.

Maybe that was why he finally announced he was gay a few weeks after his twenty-eighth birthday. His father had died the previous year, and without him, there seemed little point in pretending he'd someday get married and breed an heir. The idea of having a child out of obligation stirred his sense of justice. He wouldn't marry a woman he didn't love, and he had the feeling he would never fall in love with a woman.

He honestly didn't think he could fall in love with anyone. The closest he'd ever come to having a relationship had been Fuji, and he still couldn't think of Fuji as an ex-lover.

He tried not to think of Fuji at all.

He had reasoned, though, if he declared himself homosexual, the matchmaking would stop. There might be a bit of stigma attached, but he was positioned well, and his company was global and prided itself on its modern morals. How wrong he had been.

It was true that hardly anyone lifted an eyebrow when he made his preferences known, but it had if anything, made matters worse. The women had decided that he was now "safe" and would make perfect best friend material - antisocial tendencies be damned. When he politely tried to explain to them that he wasn't interested in all the feminine frippery and emotional bonding they seemed to assume he was now magically aware of, they ignored him. After all, he was gay, and that was part of being gay, right?

And the match making continued. The men tended to try to match him with women who would either be understanding of his "tastes" and ignore affairs on the side, or be willing to try to screw the gay out of him. Neither type was particularly appealing, but his female acquaintances were worse, since the ones who accepted he was gay thought he needed someone to love...

That led to _their_ attempts at matchmaking. Since he was the tall, silent type, they all decided that he needed a delicate, pretty male... and that meant there was a long line of pretty, brainless femme flamers being thrown at him, since they would all "compliment" his personality. He could tell all of them were yaoi manga fans, because it was clear all of them were trying to find him an uke.

It was just too bad he hated effeminate men.

There had been a few incidences which were almost funny in retrospect, but Tezuka had finally put his foot down and declared that there was no way he was going to let himself be paired up with anyone. He was happiest at home, with his cat, Neko, for company.

It didn't seem to sink in.

A week before his thirtieth birthday, he found himself invited to dinner with one of his best clients, Atobe Keigo, and his wife, Mariko. He'd known Atobe since their school days, and their acquaintance - he wouldn't go so far as to call it friendship - had been one of the reasons Atobe had elected to have Tezuka's law firm oversee the Atobe Group's overseas dealings whenever they needed a lawyer. 

"I know you, Tezuka, and I know your work is nearly as perfect as my own. Since you're not conquering the world through tennis, I suppose you can help me conquer it through business," Atobe had said three years ago when Tezuka had been given the account. It had been arrogant, but Tezuka knew better than to let that bother him. He actually worked very well with Atobe, since he and the other man had long held each other in unspoken mutual regard. 

Landing the account had done wonders for his career, vaulting him through the firm's other junior lawyers and giving him a full-partnership at twenty-seven. He might have resented the "hand up" if he hadn't received the truckload of work to accompany it. All in all, it was a very nice deal, with one small exception: Mariko.

Mariko was Australian, though her parents had immigrated directly from Japan. Tezuka knew that their marriage had little affection in it, since Atobe was currently maintaining two rather expensive mistresses, and he personally found Mariko to be one of the most vapid people he'd met in ages. There had been a lot of money involved in the marriage, though, and she was quite beautiful and willing to turn an eye to Atobe's infidelities, so did make the perfect trophy wife.

Tezuka's problem was that she apparently thought that since he was "friends" with her husband, that extended to him, and she despite her own less than perfect marriage, she still believed in true love - and that meant match-making. 

Atobe just laughed every single time she tried to set him up, finding the whole affair plain amusing. Tezuka had tried to politely convince him that being set up on "double dates" was not his idea of fun, but the other man had shrugged off his protests.

"Now, Tezuka, you're not going to be such a spoilsport, are you? It makes Mariko happy, and when Mariko's happy, my life is easier," Atobe had said six months ago as they had shared coffee. "Besides, it's not like you don't have the art of the brush off down."

Needless to say, it was with great reluctance that Tezuka agreed to dine with Atobe on the first day of October. It had become their tradition, some years back, to reserve that night to spend together. Usually it would be a chance to exchange birthday gifts away from the prying eyes of others, since their birthdays fell three days apart. It wasn't friendship, so much as a chance to... irritate the other.

Which both enjoyed.

Mariko, though, had heard about their meal and invited herself along, and said she had a "friend" that she wanted Tezuka to meet. It was only through a few pointed reminders from Atobe about how his business was worth that kept Tezuka from finding something else to be doing. Atobe wasn't above blackmail to get his own way.

That night was colder than he liked, and Tezuka pulled his jacket collar up higher in an attempt to keep the air from rushing down his shirt and chilling him to the bone. His old tennis injury was sensitive to extremes in temperature, and he was starting to become prone to the flu. Last year he wound up with a particularly nasty bug which had him laid out flat for nearly a week, and he didn't want to chance a repeat. Getting old sucked, honestly. But in less than a week he would be... thirty. Not anything he wanted to think about.

He shook his head slightly as though to chase away those thoughts as he paid the cab driver, before turning to the restaurant. _Argent_ was relatively new, and very in vogue with the stylish crowd, which was why Atobe had probably chosen it. The chef had been taught in France, and worked in England, America and Germany before buying a restaurant in Japan. Tezuka had heard his _rognons de veau flambes_ was to die for.

The restaurant was reservations only, but a line of hopeful diners was queued outside, hoping for a cancellation or that someone would finish their meal quickly. Tezuka ignored the dark looks he was slanted as he sailed by them, swinging through the door and heading to the maître de. "I believe the reservation is under Atobe," he said.

Atobe's name opened doors. The man's rather dour expression lightened and became nearly sycophantic as he studied the tall man who stood waiting in front of him. "Ah, yes. I believe two members of your party have arrived. If I may escort you?"

Rather than summon a host, the maître de left his station to lead Tezuka to what was surely the best table in the house. They took a rather narrow staircase to a small second floor, and found a balcony reminiscent of an opera house. It was private, with no other tables near it, yet allowed the diners to see and be seen. 

Atobe sat with his wife, twirling a glass of red wine between his long fingers. The light caught it and cast strange reflections ruby across his knuckles, and played particularly across the platinum and sapphire rings Atobe wore on each index finger. No wedding rings; Atobe had managed to worm out of that part of marriage.

Mariko was a pretty enough woman, with a friendly smile and an even more welcoming body, if a man was attracted to the "sex on two legs" type. Her long black hair was piled on the top of her head in a haphazard fashion, and slumberous black eyes regarded Tezuka from underneath lashes that were surely fake. Something about the satiated look on her face told him Atobe had probably screwed her in the backseat of the limo on the way to the restaurant. In a year or two, he was expecting an announcement that the Atobe heir was expected, since Atobe was definitely interested in that whole empire building thing Tezuka himself had rejected by announcing his sexuality.

Atobe slanted him a look, one which Tezuka had long ago learned that the other man used to evaluate his opponents and friends alike. His eyes looked nearly violet in the low lighting, and there was a slight languor to the way he set his glass aside. "Ah, Tezuka."

"Atobe."

It was as it always was between them. He couldn't remember how many times Atobe had purred his voice in that particular tone, the one which said he knew exactly what Tezuka was thinking and was amused by it. Tezuka let his eyes land on Mariko briefly, and quirked an eyebrow, but Atobe merely just shrugged, indicating that she should be allowed to have her fun.

Mariko missed the subtle byplay, and instead indicated the seat nearest Atobe. The table was set for four, and if he were to take the proffered chair, he would have his back to the stairway, but it would be rude to refuse her without reason. "Atobe-san," he said, nodding to her as he gracefully accepted his fate.

"Kunimitsu," she said in a particularly odd drawl that always betrayed her Australian upbringing. She was always too familiar, and the way she said his name was like running fingernails along a chalkboard. He had tried once to politely ask her that she address him more formally, but she had laughed his request off as a joke. She just didn't get it.

He settled in, and rather than draw him into small talk, Atobe simply poured him a glass of red Bordeaux. "You should like this, Tezuka. It's 40,000 yen a bottle, so savor it."

Tezuka tried not to sigh. Atobe was firmly convinced that spending money made things taste better, and while he had to agree that the wine was wonderful, the way Atobe wallowed in his money was something that irritated him. Then again, many of Atobe's habits were grating to someone who was as self-effacing as Tezuka. It was a wonder they hadn't killed each other in their decade and a half of acquaintance.

"It's good," he admitted as the wine danced along his palate. It was smooth and flowed beautiful down his throat, but he was having a hard time relaxing. 

Mariko was sipping on mineral water, and her eyes kept glancing behind Tezuka, obviously awaiting the person who she had invited to complete the dinner party. A slight smile danced on her lips, which was set Tezuka's nerves even more on end.

"Do you want to tell me who you have invited, Atobe-san?" he asked, finally breaking down enough to give into his nerves. He had a vision of another would-be artist, or a sensitive musician, which seemed to be the type that most women figured he would adore. 

"Oh, just someone I wanted you to meet," she said airily. "I hate thinking of you home, alone, when you're such a wonderful person."

Atobe definitely snickered at that, and Tezuka resolved to ignore him.

"Atobe-san, it is very kind of you to be concerned, but I have told you before that-"

"Oh, this isn't like Nagoya! He's really gay this time!" she assured him. "Well, bi."

Tezuka didn't want to be reminded about the time she'd inadvertently set him up on a date with a guy who was just very feminine, and not gay. Atobe had laughed for weeks afterward, but at the time Tezuka had been ready to kill her. In fact, Tezuka saw Atobe was laughing right now out of the corner of his eye, politely muffling it behind a hand, at the memory.

"I am not interested in acquiring-"

"You need someone!" she insisted. "Kunimitsu, in less than a week you'll be thirty!"

_Thirty._

The number rang like a death knell in his mind, and he saw Atobe stop laughing as well. "Mariko, if this engagement doesn't work, leave Tezuka alone," Atobe commanded suddenly, his eyes sharp and biting as he glared at his wife.

She blinked, realizing she'd apparently hit something that was a sensitive topic. "It won't be a problem! I won't need to match make anymore after this! I'm sure Fuji is perfect for Kunimitsu!" she said brightly.

Tezuka choked on his wine, and Atobe actually looked surprised. "Fuji?" Tezuka echoed quietly.

"Yes, his name is Fuji Syuusuke. He's a doctor of some sort, so I thought you might like him a bit better than the artistic type. I met him at the last tennis tournament Keigo-chan dragged me to. His brother is a professional. Ever hear of Fuji Yuuta?" she asked cheerfully.

It was all Tezuka could do not to walk out of the restaurant there and then. The last person on earth he wanted to see was his ex-boyfriend, and he couldn't believe how this had worked out. Atobe was working hard on smoothing his expression over, but there was still a slightly stunned look in his eyes.

"Mariko, did you tell Fuji who you were setting him up with?"

"Oh, I didn't say a thing about setting him up. I said that I'd like him to meet my husband, so would he accept a din- wait a second. You know him?"

Atobe gave Tezuka a glance that was almost sympathetic. "Tezuka and Fuji were teammates while they played tennis. I played against the both of them," he said diplomatically enough.

"Oh... oh," she said as she thought it through. "Well, I guess you can just have a reunion, then," she said, obviously trying not to pout at having a match-making scheme foiled.

It was on the tip of Tezuka's tongue to "remember" a contract he had left unfinished at the office, but the sound of someone climbing the stairs stopped him. He felt a strange thrill of recognition race across his body as Fuji approached - he could sense the other man without having to turn around. Fuji carried some kind of strange electricity in his presence that Tezuka had always been able to tune into.

"Hello," a soft voice said, one which Tezuka hadn't heard in nearly two years.

He didn't deign to turn around, even though all of his instincts were screaming for him to examine the enemy which was approaching. Having Fuji around automatically set him on edge, and if he was smart, he would figure some way to make an excuse and avoid what would be a very trying night.

He had never been smart around Fuji, though.

"Fuji," he said softly.

Fuji had apparently recognized him before moving forward, because there was no faltering in his step as he came forward and took the last seat. The slight smile which had always been his trademark danced around his lips, but the half-lidded eyes said that he was in the mood to fight.

"Hello, Tezuka," he said, before turning and greeting the others.

Tezuka took the opportunity to evaluate Fuji, and how he had changed. Fuji looked like someone set out to seduce. The other man was still slender, and he had grown his hair long enough that it was pony-tailed at the nape of his neck. It seemed he had recently been somewhere sunny, because he was sporting a nice tan, which was nicely set off by the cream silk shirt and blue ascot he was wearing. He had a black velvet jacket as well, but he'd already draped that over the chair.

Fuji turned his attention back to Tezuka, and his sharp glance told Tezuka that the appraisal was mutual. Tezuka's clothes were more traditional, with a simple Armani suit and tie that Oishi had given him last Christmas. The paisley pattern was sedate and unassuming, but Tezuka didn't try to stand out in a crowd. "How have you been?" Fuji asked.

"Well enough."

Fuji nodded, before turning his attention to Mariko. "You should have told me who you were planning on setting me up with," he chided her gently. "I could have told you that Tezuka and I are... incompatible."

Mariko's eyes went wide at being caught. "I- I-"

"Dear, Fuji's very like Oshitari. He probably read you like a book," Atobe said, raising a glass in a sanguine fashion. "Cheers!"

Fuji poured himself a glass of wine and met the toast merrily. "You're looking well, Atobe," he said. "Married life seems to agree with you."

"It's not so different from being unmarried," Atobe replied.

Tezuka tried not to groan. The last thing he needed was Mariko to finally catch onto exactly what Atobe was up to, but the suggestive look Atobe sent at a woman who was dining twenty feet away made it clear he was in a reckless mood. 

"I wouldn't know," Fuji said. "I broke off my engagement six months ago, so I don't think I'll be entering any state of marital bliss anytime soon."

"Engagement?" Tezuka found himself echoing.

"We didn't work out." Fuji's eyes locked on Tezuka's, the barb sly and subtle. 

Tezuka had used those same words when explaining to Kikumaru that he and Fuji weren't friends anymore - and then later... No. He didn't need to think about the reunion. It had been a disaster.

"Sometimes people just aren't meant to be together."

"It would be nice if both parties knew they were together before they broke up," Fuji said. "Then again, they have to be willing to communicate."

"It takes two to screw things up," Tezuka replied evenly. He knew that his communication skills were a weakness of his, but Fuji was being exceptionally trying to poke at it. He wouldn't accept full blame for how poorly things had gone between them, because Fuji had pushed his buttons more than once. It seemed like Fuji was the only one who was aware those buttons existed in the first place, and loved toying with them.

"But blame is not always distributed evenly, don't you agree, Atobe?" Fuji said, drawing Atobe into the discussion.

"It depends on the situation," Atobe agreed. "Remember out first game, Tezuka? Everyone blamed me for wrecking your arm, but you were the one who allowed it. I think the whole mess was your fault."

It was an old argument, something that Tezuka wished would die, but Atobe seemed determined to keep alive if only to irritate him. Sometimes Tezuka wondered if he was a masochist, to elect to spend so much time in the presence of a person who derived delight in trying to agitating him, but then he remembered he'd also slept with Fuji for two years. He was just stupid.

"Atobe, you will be old and gray and still arguing the blame on that incident," Tezuka said, taking a sip of his wine.

Atobe winced for the second time in the evening. "Let's not talk about getting old."

"Oh, that's right! Happy early birthday!" Fuji said, beaming merrily at the businessman. "If I remember right, your birthday is in a few days! Aren't you turning thirty?

Atobe looked ready to reach across the table and strangle him. "Thank you," he said icily. "It'll happen to you, too, so don't gloat."

Fuji sighed and looked wistful. "It will be a while. I'm only seven."

Mariko looked confused. "Seven?"

"He was born on February 29," Tezuka explained.

"He'll be lucky to see seven and a half if he doesn't knock it off," said Atobe grouchily.

"Knock what off?" Fuji asked innocently.

Tezuka didn't buy it. Fuji was as innocent as a rattlesnake.

They finally did order. Tezuka went for the _rognons de veau flambes_ , while Atobe went for the _pate de fois gras,_ unsurprisingly. He didn't even bother paying attention to Mariko's order, but Fuji ordered _civet de lievre_. The conversation around the table idled a bit, with Mariko trying to fill in the blanks, but the three men were wary, all waiting for the next volley.

It came at dessert, when Atobe decided it was time to exchange their annual gifts. It was part of their tradition, started back in their senior year of high school, and there always was the question of what to get the man whose company was rapidly inching toward the Fortune 500. Atobe was fond of lavish gifts for his friends, but Tezuka didn't really respond to his generosity in a fashion which made giving them fun. After two years of offering ridiculous presents (Tezuka had returned the car and donated the boat to a charity auction), he had finally struck on the idea of giving gag gifts.

No one ever had given gag gifts to Tezuka before. The first year there had been a "fish finder" and a collection of self-improvement books - along with a note that all he had to do was act like Atobe himself to become a better person. 

Tezuka hadn't taken the whole matter lying down. The year after Atobe had started the gag gifts, he'd returned with a book on STDs. Then the next year there had been a book on the joys of humility, and then there had been the year he'd convinced Atobe's alma mater to sponsor a scholarship for a gay student in Atobe's name. Atobe had a few hang ups over being called gay (he may have been a peacock, but he swore up and down he was one hundred percent heterosexual), and his reaction that year had been particularly brilliant.

This year Tezuka pulled out an envelope from his pocket and lay it on the table, earning a quizzical glance. Atobe's beautifully wrapped gift was pretty clearly a book, and Tezuka stared at the purple wrapping paper with a bit of dread.

Fuji sat back in his seat and Mariko had the sense to keep her mouth shut as the two former rivals squared off. 

"You first, Atobe," Tezuka said.

Atobe called for a waiter to bring him a knife, and then carefully slit the white envelope open. He frowned as he slid out the official-looking paper, and quickly read it over.

"This is rather unusual, Tezuka," he said after a moment, though he wasn't displeased.

"I thought you might like it."

"It's different," Atobe said, as he tried to wrap his mind around what he had been given.

Mariko leaned over to see the paper her husband was holding, and blinked when she realized what it was. "That's so sweet, Kunimitsu! You named a star after Keigo!"

Now Fuji looked interested. "You named a star Keigo?" he asked.

"No, I named it Atobe," Tezuka said. "It was that or name it Diva, but sadly someone else already used that name." His voice was so deadpan that he knew that most people would have problems telling if he was serious or not.

"If you'd done that, I would have had one named Four-Eyes in your honor," Atobe replied smoothly.

"Please note it's a blue star."

"They burn the hottest and brightest," Atobe said thoughtfully, and nodded in satisfaction. "Next year, I want some lunar property."

"I can get it this year for you, Keigo-chan!" Mariko interrupted.

"Don't interrupt our game, Mariko. Give me the engraved Rolex, and I'll be satisfied."

Her mouth opened and closed, and she finally rolled her eyes. "Monitoring my accounts again?"

"When do I not?"

The gift Atobe had given Tezuka took very little time to unwrap, and he stared at the book like it was going to bite him. "You gave me a book on gay sex tips."

"I was stressed for time, but I figured your sex life could use a boost," Atobe returned, and he actually had the grace to look a bit embarrassed. Apparently the joke wasn't as funny as he thought it would be.

Tezuka carefully rewrapped the package in the wrapping paper's remnants, hoping to smuggle it out of the restaurant. "Your concern for my love life is so kind."

"Is there some reason why everyone is hinting, Tezuka?" Fuji asked.

Tezuka shrugged. He wasn't going to reply.

The bill thankfully arrived just in time to keep Atobe from giving his reasoning. Atobe and Fuji at the same dinner table was enough to make Tezuka long for a nice, long soak in the bath, maybe chased by something strongly alcoholic. The place between his forehead where his headaches usually started was beginning to throb, and he rose to his feet.

"You have the bill," he told Atobe. There was no way he was going to pay for the meal which had been a delicate exercise in torture. 

"Don't I always?" Atobe said, then stretched languorously. "I'll call you later this week - there's a company I'm thinking of acquiring, but..." he shrugged.

"Tuesday."

"Afternoon, then."

Their half-finished sentences made little sense to others, and Mariko wore a resigned sigh, having long ago given up on making sense of what passed between her husband and Tezuka. "Happy birthday, Kunimitsu. I'll be dropping your gift off on your birthday."

"I may not be home." He certainly wouldn't be, if he could figure out when she was coming.

"I'll leave it for you," she promised.

He nodded, and started out of the restaurant, purposely neglecting to say farewell to Fuji.

It wasn't a surprise to find the other man at his elbow as he ended up on the curb, waiting for a cab. The maître de had offered to call him a cab, but he had brushed it off, preferring instead to take his chances instead of having to wait for the preferred company which would probably take twice as long.

"Shall we split a cab?" Fuji asked. Even though it had gotten colder while they had dined, Fuji was still carrying his jacket, ignoring the wind which seemed to tear right through their clothes and bite at their skin. His posture was relaxed, and the question had been asked with the same casualness an old friend would offer.

But they weren't friends anymore.

"I don't think that would be wise."

"It would be cheaper. We only live two blocks away from each other," Fuji said, and his teeth glinted in the streetlight as he bared a smile.

Tezuka hasn't known that. In Tokyo, it was possible to live in the same building and not know a person, but he found it unsettling that Fuji knew where he lived.

"I hope that's accidently."

"I'm not stalking you, Tezuka. Fate is a funny thing. When Eiji heard where I moved, though, he..." Fuji let the sentence trail off.

Tezuka shut his eyes, able to figure out exactly what had happened. "I see."

"When's the last time you saw Oishi?"

"About six months ago."

"Falling out of touch again?"

"We're both busy people. He'll probably stop by this week, knowing Oishi."

"With Kikumaru in tow."

"You sound bitter." Tezuka wasn't above trying to get a little of his own back.

A certain tilt in Fuji's head warned Tezuka that it was a bad subject to broach. Kikumaru was one of Fuji's sore points, and always had been. "He's happy."

"Did you ever love him?"

Instead of answering, Fuji smiled at the cab which was pulling in front of them. "Shall we?"

The wise would have declined and taken a later cab, but Fuji's presence made Tezuka's skin prickle and his wits were more alive than they had been in years. It was intoxicating to be around him, a drug that Tezuka knew was bad for him but could never deny.

The cab ride was thankfully brief, and Fuji seemed to fall into some kind of contemplative mood. His eyes were locked on the passing scenery, and the red lights of the street caught his hair and face, distancing him from the real world. Tezuka was unable to keep his eyes off the man who had been his first sex partner. He'd had sex a couple times since, but none of those - two men and a woman - had managed to make him find satisfaction as completely. There was just _something_ about Fuji.

It could have been the strange androgyny that many people associated with Fuji, but Tezuka knew that despite his appearance, Fuji wasn't fragile. He wouldn't break. He was strong, stronger than anyone Tezuka had known. Their was no steel in his being - rather, he was made of willow, and would always bend until he had the chance to lash back into place.

The ponytail did catch Tezuka's eye, though. It was strange to see Fuji without the overly long sideburns brushing his cheeks, but he guessed that Fuji had probably decided that it was too teenage a look. Now he looked like a chic professional, one who was a bit on the edge of style. 

"Are you done staring at me?" Fuji asked, finally breaking the long silence.

"There's nothing better to look at," Tezuka returned, not feeling like denying that he had been staring, since Fuji would inevitably start arguing that fact.

"Don't you find Tokyo interesting?"

"I've seen this part before."

Fuji's gaze never left the window. "That's always been your problem. You never look twice."

The cab slowed, and Tezuka reached into his pocket to fish out some money, but Fuji's hand on his wrist stopped him. "I'll get it, Tezuka. Consider it a birthday gift."

Seconds later, both were outside of the cab, and Fuji stared at Tezuka's apartment complex curiously. The twenty-story building was imposing and post-war, and Tezuka wondered why Fuji was still there.

"Yes?"

"Aren't you going to invite your date in for some tea?"

The "go away" that was on his tongue died as Fuji slipped his arm through his - and he knew how the night was going to end.

"Aren't you going to ask to look at the etchings on my ceiling?" he asked as he made his way to the elevator, ignoring the doorman who gave him a discreetly raised eyebrow. Tezuka Kunimitsu never had guests, let alone ones who traced their fingertips suggestively along his arm.

"You have them?"

"No, but it's a polite euphemism for what you want, isn't it?"

The elevator "pinged" and Fuji spun around pressing his body against Tezuka. He was still short, but the look in his eyes made Tezuka fear how much damage he could do. "Shall we just abandon subtly, then, and get on with it?" he demanded, and his hands were in Tezuka's hair, yanking his head down for a kiss which knocked Tezuka's glasses askew and sent his senses spinning. The book Atobe had given him fell out of his hands, landing on the floor with a loud thump.

Fuji's tongue invaded his mouth demandingly, and Tezuka found his hands on Fuji's sides, gripping the white silk tightly. It was hard to get a firm hold on, as it kept slipping through his fingers, and he adjusted his hands several times, trying to bring Fuji closer. It was madness, to be making out like a hormone-crazed youngster in an elevator that had seventeen stories to ascend, but Fuji was sliding a leg between his, running it up and down suggestively as his tongue danced enticingly in and out of Tezuka's mouth. 

He could hear the chime of the bell as they flew past floors, but since they were going up, no one stopped to get on. His fingers managed to free Fuji's shirt from where it was tucked, and then he found the warm skin of Fuji's waist.

A slight hiss as he ran a hand up to find a nipple, rolling it between his thumb. Blood was rushing to his groin, and he knew that as soon as they reached his apartment, they were going to...

"Fuck," he whispered as he realized something important.

"Here? I thought you'd want to wait till we got to your apartment," Fuji said, his hand going to the swelling in Tezuka's pants.

It was his turn to hiss. "Damn you, I don't have anything," he said warningly.

Fuji pulled back, his eyes suddenly blue. "You're kidding."

"I'm not into casual sex."

Fuji pulled back, leaning against the wall, and started to laugh. The chuckle was low in his throat, and then he was suddenly practically hunched over, his eyes watering as he tried to breathe. "This is just too damn funny."

Tezuka took several deep breaths as he tried to regain his equilibrium. "If you say so." At the moment, his body was demanding he say the hell with safety, and just bang Fuji already. He hadn't been this aroused since the last time he'd slept with Fuji.

"Maybe it's a sign," Fuji mused.

"A chance to get our senses back. We don't even like each other," Tezuka said, his body still feeling far too aware of the other man.

"So? What's that got to do with lust?"

"Fuji..."

The doorbell "pinged" and suddenly Tezuka found himself in the hallway to his apartment. Fuji waggled the fingers of his right hand playfully as he pressed the down button with his left. "Au revoir!" he called cheerfully.

Tezuka stared as the doors closed on Fuji's smiling face, knowing that his life had just gotten one hundred times more complicated.

He was going to kill Atobe and Mariko - but first he needed a cold shower.


	2. Like I've Been There Before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How offensive can Ryoma be? Very, very, very.

Tezuka had never been fond of Mondays, and this one was worse than most. It was his last as a twenty-something, which he would have thought should have earned him a bit of grace, but his life never worked liked that.

Tezuka's day had been trying, and he supposed someone had visited the old "may you live in interesting times" curse upon him. He'd slept fitfully throughout the night, his body tense and more sexually aware than it'd been in years, reminding him that he was a healthy man with sexual urges. His dreams had been strange, and though he couldn't remember them, he was convinced Fuji had probably featured prominently in them - and they had all been XXX rated.

He really, really wanted to strangle Mariko for starting the whole mess.

At the office, his secretary had been out sick and the girl who had replaced him had been beyond incompetent. She'd spent most of the day flashing her legs at him, bending over to offer him glimpses of her rather ample cleavage and playing the ingénue. Personally, he would have been more impressed had she known how to type the way her CV had promised.

Things had gotten worse when he'd gotten home and found that the crock pot he'd thought he'd turned on hadn't been. The curry hadn't cooked, and he'd had to throw it out, and he'd ordered take out instead, and the greasy food had turned his stomach. He was never fond of food from those places, and he should have made his own meal, but he'd been too tired after dodging the temp's not-so-subtle invitations to join her after work. 

Neko, sensing her master's sour mood, had curled up in his lap when he'd settled in to watch a documentary, but had jumped up, startled, and accidently scratched him with her claws when the bell had shrilled about ten. Tezuka never had visitors, so he couldn't blame her for her surprise. Luckily she hadn't drawn blood, but it definitely hurt.

Finding a drunken Echizen Ryoma outside had definitely not been what he'd been expecting. He blinked once, trying to find something to say, but Echizen beat him to it.

"So, buchou, are you going to let me in, or do you have a cute girl stashed inside? Wait, I forgot. It'd be a guy. My bad," he said, slurring his words slightly as he slouched against the opposite wall, his amber eyes hard with cynicism.

Echizen Ryoma had grown up since their high school years, but Tezuka took a secret satisfaction from the fact that he still had a good five centimeters on the team's former "chibi." Not that he was in any particular mood to gloat over it now, because at the moment, Echizen was drunk - and Echizen was a mean drunk, full of bile and ready to lash out at anyone who got in his way. 

As far as Tezuka knew, Echizen should have been staying at a posh hotel, but he had instead elected to show up on Tezuka's doorstep, sloshed and carrying only a battered tennis bag over his shoulder. It crossed Tezuka's mind to send him on his way for only a fraction of a second before he'd drew Echizen inside. His former underclassmen was one of the most famous tennis players in the world, and Tezuka didn't want to deal with the scandal.

He could picture the headlines: _Drunken Ryoma pleads with gay lover!_ While they weren't lovers, Tezuka's sexuality was well-known, and the newsrags wouldn't let a little thing like truth get in their way.

Echizen managed to stumble in with an acceptable amount of grace, if a person ignored the fact he was one of the world's top athletes. He found the couch and plopped onto it with a boneless sprawl that could only be achieved with the liberal use of an alcoholic product. He waved an imperious hand at Tezuka. "Take a seat," he ordered, ignoring that it was Tezuka's home.

Tezuka wondered where the days when Echizen had actually respected him had gone. Usually the other man was just a bit impertinent, not rude, but Tezuka knew that when Ryoma started to drink, any manners his senpai had managed to drill into him flew out the window. He'd always blamed it on Echizen's American upbringing, but that didn't make it acceptable.

Ryoma wore the high ponytail that "Samurai" Nanjirou had been so famous for, and Inoue, who Tezuka had run into at one of Ryoma's games a few years ago, said he often had a sense of deja vu when watching Ryoma play. He had never been able to truly step out of his father's shadow, despite all of Tezuka's encouragement, so instead Echizen seemed to embrace Nanjirou's legacy, and was determined to create a family tennis dynasty.

When Echizen Nanjirou had died during Ryoma's first year of high school due to the brain tumor which had forced him out of tennis, he thought the boy would go mad. Every title Echizen Ryoma won seemed to be challenge to the man Ryoma would never be able to beat. It was a pity, but that was the way life worked, and Tezuka had long ago resigned himself to the fact that Echizen would never reach his true potential.

Right now, though, Echizen looked sulky and ready to start a fight. Tezuka cocked an eyebrow as he sank into his chair, resting his elbow on the armrest and cupping his chin in his hand as he waited for Echizen to start the conversation, since Tezuka was not one to initiate things. 

"You know, you're smart," Ryoma finally said, looking around the elegantly appointed living room. "You never got married."

Considering Ryoma knew Tezuka was gay, it was a rather odd thing to say. "I never saw the need," Tezuka said neutrally, wondering where Ryoma was going with the conversation.

"Women are more trouble than they're worth," Ryoma said. "I mean, they're great for screwing, and a few of them are good cooks, but I don't see any other reason for them to exist."

"Procreation without women would be a problem," Tezuka pointed out. 

It was a difference to hear Ryoma speak so negatively about the fairer sex. Ryoma had eventually come to share in his father's appreciation for women, though he'd never become lascivious about it. Ryoma's affairs had been discreet, but he had never lacked for a woman on his arm or in his bed, and Tezuka knew that he'd had more than his fair share of one night stands. 

"Only the masochists choose to procreate," Ryoma snorted. "It's why you're smart. You only screw men."

Tezuka was starting to get an idea what had happened. Apparently, a love affair had gone sour - the signals Ryoma was sending were undeniable. "My sexual preferences have nothing to do with why you showed up plastered on my doorstep." Tezuka knew he should be getting Ryoma some water and making him drink to help minimize the hangover that was sure to arrive tomorrow, but right now he was ready to toss the other man out and feed him to the press. He couldn't abide rudeness, and Echizen's attitude, which had been almost cute at twelve, was irritating in a man of twenty-seven. "Echizen, why are you here?"

Echizen lowered his eyes, and for a second seemed almost on the verge of tears. Then he growled. "Because I need somewhere to stay. The Japan Open is this week, and I don't want to stay in a hotel."

"You're competing in it?" Tezuka asked. The Japan Open wasn't a Grand Slam event, so the purse really wasn't that attractive to a player of Ryoma's caliber.

"I always compete in it!" Ryoma snapped back. 

"You missed it two years ago," Tezuka pointed out. 

"Stressed tendon. Would've still played, but my manager said not - and unlike some players, I don't destroy my whole career just for one game. I think about the big picture nowadays."

It was the second time in as many days someone had mentioned the game from when Tezuka had been fourteen. _Would people never be able to let that go?_ he wondered with more than a little bit of irritation. He wasn't a person to regret things, but in retrospect he had to admit it hadn't been terribly bright to throw away a promising tennis career over a junior high tennis title. It was that hind sight being twenty-twenty thing he had always been told about.

"You were always remarkable for your tunnel vision in school," Tezuka commented. "I guess things change. Didn't the Japan Open begin today?"

"I'm the top seed. I don't play until Wednesday," Ryoma said. He sniffed a bit derisively. He'd never been fond of being seeded out of lower ranks - he would have rather played his way through the ranks of players. The younger man had always wanted the satisfaction of cutting down those players who he felt needed to be humbled. Nowadays, though, he stood on top of the pile, and there was no one who wouldn't admit he was the one they were targeting. He had brought Japanese tennis onto the world stage, as Tezuka and his peers had foreseen - but maybe he had lost a bit of himself.

"I can probably get some time off. I'd like to watch you play," Tezuka said. It was true, to an extent. There was a strange pleasure in watching the clean motions of Echizen, the way he'd adapt to overcome any player he'd face. Echizen was the only player who'd ever mastered "The Zone" technique that Tezuka had once claimed as his own, the only one who had managed to adopt all of Fuji's triple counters, the only one who had taken Atobe's Rondo to Destruction and mastered it. Combined with his devastating drives and split step, there had been no stopping him.

Tezuka didn't truly approve, because Tezuka had never really seen Echizen play his own game - just imitations of those Echizen had admired most. It was like watching a better version of Wakato the Pretender, sometimes.

A smile curled on Ryoma's lips, and he waved a hand again, and Tezuka saw he was still wearing the warm up band which had never seemed to leave him. "Call the box office. Seats are 16,000 yen for the good section, I think."

Most people would have been offended, especially when they had their house unexpectedly invaded by a wealthy tennis player, but Tezuka knew how to reign the other in. "Rent for a room in this area of town for a week is approximately 50,000 yen," he returned. "And if we add food and other conveniences, I think 60,000 would be more than fair."

Ryoma stared at him as well as he was able, but in his drunken state, his eyes didn't quite focus right. Then he started to giggle, and before Tezuka realized it, the other man managed to roll off the couch, nearly creaming himself on the coffee table on his way down.

"Careful!" he warned, but Ryoma was rolling around on the floor, lost in laughter.

"Sorry, sorry. I forgot... you used to live with Fuji, you would have learned how to be a bastard," he said. He snickered a few more times, before finally coming to a stop, and just staring at the ceiling. "Buchou?" 

Tezuka, still sitting in his chair, recognized the suddenly serious tone. It was Ryoma looking toward his mentor, toward the man who had helped him grow up. "What is it, Echizen?"

"Sakuno's pregnant."

Tezuka shut his eyes slowly. The girl had been following Ryoma since junior high, and had become his assistant upon their graduation from high school. Apparently Ryoma's love of the female form had finally caught up to them. 

"Marry her, then," he said firmly.

"I would if it was mine," Ryoma returned. He turned his head to meet Tezuka's eyes challengingly. "We've never slept together."

For once, Tezuka's composure completely deserted him and his jaw went slack. It had always been one of those reputable facts of life: the sun would rise in the east, water was wet, and Sakuno loved Ryoma. "What happened?"

"It was one of those parties about three months ago that I'm always going to - you know the type. Famous people and their hangers on. I went, she was one of the hangers on," he said. His words were brutally cruel. "She met some guy there, and if I need to explain what happened, then maybe you should try being straight for a while."

"I get the picture." Tezuka tried to pull his thoughts together. "It has nothing to do with you, Ryoma."

"It has everything to do with me! She was supposed to wait!" Ryoma exploded, rolling off the floor and onto his feet, swaying slightly.

Tezuka looked around, and thanked the gods that there was nothing in arm's reach of Ryoma that could be thrown. Ryoma looked ready to destroy anything he deemed offensive.

"Wait for what?" Tezuka asked.

"For me to finish my tennis career," Ryoma said. His hands balled themselves at his sides since he lacked a target to vent on.

Tezuka couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Did you ever talk about it with her?"

"I thought she knew! She's always been there, and...." Ryoma scowled, and his right hand grabbed a hold of his ponytail and yanked it, the way he did whenever he was irritated. "Dammit! Why the fuck couldn't she wait?"

Tezuka could think of a dozen reasons. Fifteen years of trailing Ryoma must have finally reached a boiling point, and while he was disappointed in Sakuno, he honestly couldn't blame her. "Who's the father?"

"Some photographer. He's already bailed, and he's told her he's not going to pay support." Ryoma was quiet. "My mother is going to tell me to marry her."

"Would that be so bad?"

"I don't want the brat," Echizen bit out. "It's not mine!"

"You want Sakuno, though, don't you?"

"I did. I always thought... well, I'd retire or turn thirty or something and decide to start a family, and she'd be there. She'd be a good wife, and she loves me. But I don't want that child!"

"Why can't that child be part of your family?"

"He's not mine. He won't understand tennis."

"Teach him."

"My tennis is genetic. You know that."

That was true. They'd often speculated that Ryoma's tennis had been his inheritance as Echizen Nanjirou's son. He knew that Echizen's pride in being his father's son wouldn't let him give a child that wasn't the Echizen name.

"It could be a girl."

"If I had a child, the only way I'd be able to communicate is through tennis. There's no reason I couldn't teach a daughter," Echizen said. "Tezuka, I can't marry Sakuno anymore."

"Did she ask you to?" Tezuka asked, though he already knew the answer.

"Of course not."

"Then it's not your problem."

"Yes, but-" Ryoma shook his head. "Dammit. Ah, hell." He covered his mouth as he face twisted. "Buchou, where's your bathroom?"

"It's the door to the right, you've been here before." Tezuka watched as Ryoma made a dash, and the sounds of him being violently ill came from within. Tezuka sighed to himself as he retrieved a glass of water from the kitchen. Ryoma would probably need to wash out the taste.

He waited about two minutes before knocking on the door, only to find Ryoma clutching the toilet. Sweat decorated his forehead, and he looked worse than he had when he'd played five sets during Wimbledon. 

"Drink this," Tezuka ordered, grabbing a wash cloth and moistening it. Gently he wiped the traces of Ryoma's illness away, and Ryoma looked at him.

"Why couldn't I be gay?" he asked. "I mean, I don't think you'd be my type, but Fuji-senpai is almost as pretty as a girl, and..." he muttered. "If I was gay, I'd date him. Gay guys don't get pregnant."

Tezuka knew Ryoma was thoroughly plastered at this point. "You're going to regret saying that in the morning."

"Probably. But I'd rather be drunk in front of you than anyone else."

Tezuka was touched by the amount of trust that showed. He pushed Ryoma's bangs out of his eyes, and stared at him. "How about I set you up on the couch?" he said.

"Ugh."

Tezuka took that for agreement. Ryoma looked ready to pass out on the tile floor. Tezuka was forced to wrap an arm under Ryoma and haul him upright, and together the two staggered to the living room, where Tezuka rather abruptly deposited Ryoma on the couch. Ryoma didn't even protest the rough treatment, so Tezuka just tugged off Ryoma's sneakers - which he hadn't removed at the entry - and settled him onto the couch before covering him with a blanket. By the time he finished, Ryoma was completely unconscious.

It amused him that within a minute, Neko managed to climb onto Echizen's chest. Cats had always had a fondness for Ryoma.

Tezuka had planned on watching the third in a series on hiking throughout the world, but Echizen's presence had neatly nixed that idea. So instead, he went into his room and started to read a murder mystery he'd been meaning to get to.

Sadly, the writing was dull, and Tezuka nodded off before getting thirty pages in. His dreams were vivid, and in them, Fuji told him he was pregnant with their child, who really belonged to Ryoma's girlfriend.


	3. Things Are Gonna Change So Fast

When Tezuka woke up the next morning, he was careful to move quietly so as not to wake his unexpected house guest. Ryoma had gotten up twice during the night to throw up, but when Tezuka paused to check on him, he appeared to be a bit better. His breathing was long and deep, and he seemed to be lost to the world of dreams, for which Tezuka was grateful. The last way he wanted to begin his morning was to deal with a hung-over Ryoma.

He was ten minutes late leaving his apartment, and that meant he missed his usual train. The next one left fifteen minutes later, and by the time he showed up at his office, he was nearly half an hour off schedule. For someone like Tezuka, it was an annoyance which would throw him off kilter for the rest of the day.

His secretary was still out, and the temp had managed to find a shorter skirt that barely covered the top of her thighs. Her long, silky black hair was brushed to a sleek shine. She looked at him from under dark "come hither" lashes, whispering a husky "good morning" as she handed him a cup of tea.

Tezuka wondered why no one had bothered to inform her he was gay. 

Since the temp was practically useless, he grabbed the planner and checked his schedule. The morning was free, but his afternoon had been entirely booked by Atobe. Atobe probably had some grand scheme he was plotting, and if he was willing to shell out 50,000 yen an hour for Tezuka's presence, he was more than welcome to. But that wasn't Tezuka's concern at the moment - he had to deal with a contract for a Japanese company interested in offshoring to the Philippines. 

It was nearly noon when Tezuka pushed back from his desk, straightening his glasses and throwing himself into a long, slow stretch to work the kinks out of his shoulders. He normally found the technical nuances of his work fascinating, but today he'd redone the same work multiple times to make up for a distracted focus. 

He couldn't blank the memory of Ryoma's bitterness from his mind, and the few moments he managed to, he'd think of the feel of Fuji's body against his own. It had been too long since he'd had a lover, and maybe it was time to remedy that if he was so eager to jump into bed with his ex.

Finding someone he'd like to date, though, was the problem. He'd figured out a few years ago that he had a relatively low sex drive, and wasn't attracted to that many people. He could count on one hand the number of people who'd he ever been genuinely interested in - even some of his lovers had been more because they had wanted him than because of any genuine desire on his part.

It wasn't anything to be thinking about now, he thought. He should eat, then get himself over to the glass skyscraper that the Atobe Group called its home.

He was just about to order out for something quick when the intercom chimed, and his temp - whose name he hadn't learned after three weeks - spoke over it. "Tezuka-sama? There's an Atobe Keigo here to see you."

 _What would Atobe be doing here?_ he wondered. Atobe always expected people to come to him, not the other way around. Atobe had never actually been to this office before.

"Thank you. Please see Atobe in," he requested.

There was only static in reply, and it left Tezuka even more baffled. Usually the temp would have purred out something suggestive, never missing the chance to flirt.

It took only fifteen seconds for that riddle to be solved. The heavy wooden door was flung open, and Atobe Keigo posed in the doorway, running a hand through his hair. The dapperly dressed man was wearing what looked like Gucci, a striking white and black outfit that traced his legs and emphasized his still well-toned physique. The shirt, which he had left open, gave glimpses of some kind of pendant.

"Tezuka, can you believe your secretary tried to stop me?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "Apparently she didn't recognize my name."

"She's a temp. Hikaru is out sick, so I make do."

"You could at least make do with someone smart enough to recognize the richest man in Japan," Atobe derided, finally stepping all the way into the room. He glanced around the office with interest, taking in the stacks of law manuals on the shelves and the many autographed pictures of tennis players - many of whom Tezuka had played against before retiring after college - hanging on the opposite walls. Under it, Tezuka had hung the white racket he'd used to lead Seigaku in junior and senior high.

"You're third richest," Tezuka corrected. Tilting his head, he glanced at the clock and noticed it was 12:01 p.m. precisely. "Is there any particular reason you came here? We do have a meeting later today."

Atobe sniffed. "It's afternoon. You're supposed to meet with me now."

"You sound like a child," Tezuka pointed out. "I was planning on coming over after I had my lunch break."

"Let's go get lunch now." Atobe tapped his toes impatiently, waiting for Tezuka to hop-to and do as he was bid.

"Atobe-"

"Tezuka-" Atobe shot back in a mocking voice. "Let's go, I'm buying, and I've never known a lawyer who could turn down a free lunch."

"First thing you learn in law school - how to stick someone else with the bill," Tezuka finally agreed, getting his jacket from the closet and following Atobe out. He had to admit to being curious about what Atobe was up to, because despite his imperious attitude, this whole encounter was strangely out of character.

Instead of the limo that Tezuka had been expecting, Atobe led him down to the parking garage where a Lamborghini Gallardo waited, without a driver. It was a suave silver which nearly matched Atobe's hair, a fact Tezuka was convinced wasn't a coincidence.

Atobe smirked as he tossed the keys up in the air, bouncing them back and forth from hand to hand. "Nice, isn't it?" he asked.

"A bit flashy," Tezuka responded, long past the point when any of Atobe's toys could impress him.

Atobe rolled his eyes. "You still lack taste. Let's take a ride, and you'll see what a wonderful machine this is. Of course, I only get the best, so you shouldn't be surprised."

It took less than a minute for them to buckle in, and then Atobe was stepping on the gas, the hum of the motor a smooth, soothing sensation for all of five seconds until they hit the streets, and Atobe let loose.

Tezuka's knuckles whitened as he gripped the seat tightly, his jaw set with the same stony determination that had seen him to victory through so many tennis games and guided him successfully in law school to finish _suma cum laude._ He kept his eyes focused straight ahead, manfully ignoring the way Atobe was weaving through traffic at 140 kilometers an hour. Strangely, none of the police seemed at all bothered, and other cars magically got out of the way when they saw the Gallardo approaching at speeds that would have given the passengers a free facelift if the windows had been down.

"Where are we going?" Tezuka asked after about ten minutes into the ride from hell.

"Away!" Atobe returned, and the engine surged again, the odometer breaking 160. 

"Atobe..." 

Atobe slanted a look at Tezuka before popping the glove compartment to pull out a pair of shades which he slid over his eyes. "We're playing hooky."

Tezuka stared at Atobe, feeling like he'd just had a brick thrown at his head. "Atobe, I can't..."

"I booked your time, you're getting paid, so sit back and enjoy!" Atobe laughed. "Feel like taking a flight to Hong Kong for dinner? It's the only place to get good Chinese..."

"Atobe, I have a guest at my place," Tezuka ground out through gritted teeth as Atobe took a hairpin curve carelessly.

"Fuji?" Atobe asked curiously, letting his foot off the accelerator as he became distracted, turning his head toward Tezuka. "I didn't think you-"

It was strange how he'd lived without Fuji for five years, and hadn't seen him in two, and suddenly he was the main topic of conversation. Tezuka hid his annoyance, finally unbending enough to make a demand of Atobe.

"Could you please keep your eyes on the road? It's Echizen. He's in town for the Japan Open." 

Atobe smiled slightly at managing to get a rise out of Tezuka, but compiled with the request. "I could've played at that, had I continued my tennis career."

If Tezuka didn't know better, he would have thought Atobe was wistful. "You were good," he replied. Atobe was letting up on the gas, so Tezuka resolved to keep him distracted. He wanted to walk away alive.

"I could have been the greatest Japan ever knew," Atobe shot back, his grip tightening on the wheel. "Instead, there's Echizen and Kirihara, fighting it out." His mouth lost a bit of its smile. "It should have been us."

It seemed like the past was coming back to haunt them this week, Tezuka thought. Atobe never regretted anything, but his voice actually sounded like he missed those opportunities he had turned down when he was younger. 

"Let's get something to eat so we can talk."

Atobe nodded jerkily at Tezuka, steering into the next restaurant he saw. The car stopped beautifully, and Tezuka wasn't surprised to see the half-crescents his fingernails had made in his palms from gripping so tightly.

The two of them were out of place at the small ramen store, dressed in their thousand-dollar outfits, but Atobe sailed under the curtains without any hesitation. He smiled at the proprietress and the older woman melted in front of him, hastening to show the duo to a booth in the corner.

Atobe fingered the menu he was handed carefully, appearing a bit concerned about contamination. Tezuka, more used to this kind of environment than the elitist Atobe, opened his menu and studied its contents. After making a selection, he set it aside, studying his companion, trying to figure out what was going on behind the handsome face.

Atobe was playing with a strand of hair by his left ear, and his eyes were a bit less bright than usual. Something was bothering Atobe Keigo, which was a rarity. Usually problems were like water on a duck's back; existent but easily dealt with. 

It was different today.

"Atobe," Tezuka said, unable to think of anything else to do. He sucked at communication, and he had no idea how to offer comfort, if it was comfort that Atobe needed. He and Atobe weren't friends - neither of them were the type who needed other people.

Atobe sighed and leaned his head back so it was against the wall of the booth. His silver hair fell away from his face, and for a moment, Tezuka had the impression that Atobe was no more than fourteen, the age they had first met. Then Atobe moved slightly, and the moment was lost. Atobe's eyes shut, a faint smile working its way onto his lips. 

"Tomorrow's October 4," Atobe said, as though that should answer all the questions.

It did, in a way. "Nn," Tezuka said, acknowledging the remark in hopes that Atobe would continue. 

"I've been thinking lately about being thirty. Mariko is pressuring me for children, saying that now would be the optimal time since I don't want to be too old to enjoy them." He snorted. "I don't like children, but I always thought 'when I'm older, I'd do that.' I'm older now, and it's time to choose."

"We always make choices that close off paths," Tezuka replied.

"My father didn't like me. He had me because he needed an heir - and I'll probably do the same. I'll have a kid and leave him to Mariko. If she annoys me enough, I'll divorce her and set him up with some nannies or something." Atobe laughed a bit. "It's all so set in stone. I'm living my father's life. I can see it - in twenty years, I'll retire and my son will take over for me."

Tezuka thankfully had several moments to collect his thoughts, for the waitress interrupted them to take their orders. "Sometimes we need to fight against our fate."

"I know that! But I look at my life now, and I think... now what? I own a wonderful business, am married to a beautiful woman, and can do pretty much anything I want - but it was exactly what I was supposed to do. There were no surprises, no challenges."

"You're feeling rebellious, aren't you?"

"Maybe. Maybe I should have played tennis, because at least that was I would have had some kind of challenge. This was all too damn easy!"

 _What would it be like,_ Tezuka wondered, _to have your entire life scripted?_ While he'd always been gifted, he'd had to study and practice. It had to be unsettling to never find anything challenging, to never reach your limits. He almost pitied Atobe.

"How about a job change? Hand the company over to managers, and do something else?"

"Like what? I'm famous, there's no way I can get a normal job. Besides, they'd rob me blind."

Paranoia, another constant of Atobe's life. "Is there anything you _enjoy_ doing?"

"I like being rich."

"That's a state of being. Is there any activity you enjoy?" Tezuka pressed.

"I enjoy winning but that's the problem. I've reached the top, and there's no where else to go."

Their ramen arrived, and they broke apart their chopsticks in unison. Atobe didn't say anything for the rest of the meal.

* * *

Atobe wasn't willing to let Tezuka go after a simple meal. He was restless, and having successfully abducted Tezuka, he had no intention of letting the day end.

"Mariko has a surprise birthday party planned, just the two of us. She's waiting for me, and she's the last person I want to see," Atobe groused.

To Tezuka's surprise, Atobe didn't drag him to a tennis court or a museum, but instead to an amusement park. "I've never been to one before," he explained. 

It was a strange afternoon. Atobe had bought advantage tickets, which let them cut in line for the rides. Tezuka felt it was a bit like cheating, but Atobe had never been one to wait, and was willing to pay for the privilege.

They drew attention, since Tezuka was still wearing his Versaci suit and Atobe looked like he'd just stepped off the pages of a fashion magazine. Women - and a few men - were unable to resist staring at them, and Tezuka wished that he would have known about Atobe's plans so he could have dressed more appropriately. He was used to people looking at him, but he didn't like to encourage it.

Atobe, though, gloried in the attention, dragging his hand through his hair every now to evoke sighs of lust from an appreciative audience. Every now and then, he would take a seat, ostentatiously to rest, but the perfect way he managed to pose lay question to that.

After taking two dizzying trips on a roller coaster and meandering through a haunted house, Atobe finally declared himself in the mood for a snack, and bought them both ice cream bars that were priced so exorbitantly that only someone like Atobe could afford them. Tezuka didn't protest, a secret weakness for chocolate winning out over common sense.

The two leaned on the bench, back to back as they stared into the crowd which moved around them. It had been ages since Tezuka had actually relaxed enough to have fun. 

"Why the hell is turning thirty so different?" Atobe asked. "It's just a number."

"It's a number that signifies the end of young adulthood," Tezuka said. "By the time most people are thirty, they've firmly established the course of their lives."

"I found a white hair a week ago. For a moment, I actually considered getting it dyed."

Atobe with white hair was something that hurt Tezuka's mind. He hid a snicker by pretending to cough. "Why not?" he asked after collecting himself.

"Because I'm not going to hide from old age. It's a venerable state." Atobe's words sounded rote, like he'd been repeating them over and over again, trying to convince himself.

It was all Tezuka could do not to roll his eyes. "I'm going to go down kicking and screaming."

"You?" Atobe sounded surprised.

"Age means weakness. I plan to take good care of myself to maintain my condition as long as possible."

There was a long silence, before Atobe sighed. "Do you ever think we already had the best years of our lives? Back in high school, when we played tennis?"

To Tezuka, it was a distant dream, another life he kept mementos of but didn't belong to. "Not really. I'm not that boy anymore whose biggest dream was to win the national championship with his team. Tennis isn't my life."

Atobe was quiet in response, and they finished their ice cream before he spoke again. "Do you regret anything?"

"Many things, but regrets gets you no where."

"Even Fuji?"

Why the hell was everyone asking him about Fuji? Tezuka thought, but his carefully schooled expression gave no hint of his irritation. "We didn't work out."

"And I guess he followed you home so you could review how it 'didn't work out?'" Atobe taunted.

"How-" Tezuka started, before realizing he'd just fallen into a carefully laid trap.

Atobe laughed, and Tezuka could feel the line of Atobe's back shaking against his own. It was strange, to be so intimate with someone, but Atobe was a comfortable person to Tezuka. Not comforting, but someone who Tezuka understood and could let his masks down around. "I guessed. He looked like he was ready to pin you to the table on Sunday."

"There was no pinning involved," Tezuka said stiffly.

There was another laugh. "You're kidding."

"We did not engage in sexual activities," Tezuka replied firmly, glad that he was facing away so the slight flush on his face wasn't visible.

"You should have," Atobe chided. "Life's too short."

"Atobe..."

"Well, you could have at least put my gift to use!"

 _Gift?_ Tezuka wondered, before recalling the gay sex manual he'd been presented. Strangely, he couldn't rem- _Oh, shit._ He'd dropped it in the elevator while making out with Fuji. For some reason, he had no doubt that it would be returned to him, and the thought made his stomach twist.

"Tezuka?" Atobe asked after a long silence.

"Yes?"

"Let's go on the Ferris Wheel. I hear there's a great view of the city from there."

* * *

Tezuka arrived home around seven, which was just about average for him. Atobe had managed to relax enough to go home as well, though there still seemed to be something restless boiling under his surface. Tezuka knew Atobe would have to consider his life carefully unless he wanted to remain unfulfilled, but he wouldn't press. He and Atobe weren't friends, after all - merely two kindred spirits who understood each other.

The door to Tezuka's apartment was unlocked, and he pushed it open cautiously, unsure of what he would see. To his relief, the scent of a well-prepared meal wafted out of the kitchen temptingly. "Echizen?" he called.

The door opened and Echizen stuck his head out, looking none the worse for the wear. "I hope you like beef stew, because that's what we're having."

"It's fine."

"I called your office to ask you, but they said you were out with the monkey king. When I called his, his secretary told me he'd taken the afternoon for some 'vital business discussions' and wasn't available."

Ryoma raised an eyebrow, indicating the rather disrupted state of Tezuka's clothing. Tezuka, in turn, felt a bit stalked. He wasn't used to having someone else concerned about where he was. The last time he'd had someone prepare him dinner had been Fuji, and that had been a month before they broke up.

His discomfort must have been obvious, because Ryoma gestured at the table. "I'm glad you're back. Dinner will be ready in ten."

Tezuka went to his bedroom to change out of his suit, putting on a long-sleeved T-shirt and jeans. The suit was probably ruined from a snow cone a girl had managed to mash into him after a unfortunate collision. She's been so busy staring at Atobe that she hadn't been paying attention to where she was walking. Atobe had laughed harder at the slightly sour look that passed over Tezuka's face than he had all day.

Tezuka had calmly informed Atobe that since it happened while Tezuka was working for him, he could foot the bill. Atobe had retorted that there was no way he'd pay for such horrible clothes, and said that tomorrow a new, stylish suit would be awaiting Tezuka when he awoke.

It made him wonder when Atobe had declared a dislike of Versace.

Neko rubbed against his ankles, trying to trip him up in the way only loving cats could as he made his way back to the dining room, which he rarely bothered to use. He seldom had company, and the dining room table bore the weight of legal documents far more often than it did food.

"Can you set the table, buchou?" Ryoma called.

He would always be Ryoma's buchou, Tezuka thought. As he set out bowls and spoons, his mind drifted back to doing the same thing while Fuji toyed around in the kitchen. When the door opened to admit Ryoma carrying a tray, Tezuka had to blink to be sure he wasn't imagining him. He had almost expected Fuji to emerge, a teasing expression on his face as he asked how Tezuka's day had been. 

Ryoma slid the tray onto the center of the table, before heading back to get corn bread. "This is totally off my regimen, but...." Ryoma shrugged as he reappeared, settling into his chair.

"Inui would hurt you."

"Did you know he sends my coach recommended menus?"

"Milk?" It wasn't hard to imagine Inui trying to control Ryoma's life still, since Inui managed to control everyone else's to some extent. It had been a carefully worded dare from Inui that had Tezuka go to his class reunion, and even though Tezuka realized he'd been manipulated, it'd been impossible to resist. He had the feeling Inui had another dare all lined up for their twentieth.

"Four glasses a day," Ryoma replied, looking a bit disgruntled. His notorious dislike of dairy had been the subject of interviews, but the "Got Milk?" people adored him for suffering through it - even though he refused to don a milk mustache for an ad.

"Do you drink it?"

"No choice. Kajimoto practically shoves it down my throat."

Tezuka had all but forgotten the Jousei player who'd gone into coaching. He'd been one of the few who'd ever shown a lack of awe for him, though, so he figured it was a good match for the willful Ryoma. "It does a body good," he said in accented English, remembering a different campaign Inui had cited ages ago. His utterly serious expression made it questionable if he was being sarcastic or not, but Ryoma knew Tezuka well.

"I'm going to use my spoon to stab you to death if you don't lay off," Ryoma muttered, waving a spoon in Tezuka's face threateningly.

"We can't have that." He dished out some stew and took a piece of bread, and after bowing his head briefly, began to eat. Ryoma only hesitated briefly before following suit. 

The meal was only mediocre, but then Tezuka never had really developed a fondness for American food the way Ryoma had. Ryoma hadn't used any spices and it tasted bland, but he supposed it was acceptable. For a while, the only sound was the chime of spoon on glass as they ate in companionable silence.

"It's weird being around you," Ryoma said as he pushed his bowl back. "You never pry."

He shrugged, shifting his ankles a bit as Neko tried to use his legs as a ladder to his lap. "You'll tell me when you're ready."

The smirk that had been missing all night surfaced on Echizen's face. "You have such faith in me."

Tezuka didn't have the heart to tell Echizen that he'd lost his faith in his junior back when Echizen had lost sight of his goals. Instead, he lowered his eyes and pretended to be engrossed in scraping his bowl. "I know you," he said simply.

"Then you know what I did today."

Tezuka shrugged again, deciding to play inscrutable. Echizen expected Tezuka to have god-like knowledge, and acting like he did gave him leverage.

"I fired her."

Tezuka slowly set his spoon down. If he had thought on it, he supposed he could have predicted Ryoma's actions. There was a childish selfishness to him, the self-centeredness of someone who had never grown up and was used to having the world revolve around him.

"Does that really make you feel better?" Tezuka asked, too tired to reprimand Ryoma. Really, he needed a smack to the head.

Ryoma crossed his arms over his chest. "It doesn't make me feel worse. I can't stand to look at her. I don't want anything to do with her!"

For a second, Tezuka was tempted to throw Ryoma out. He didn't know Sakuno well - his mental image was of an awkward high school girl who always lingered on the fringe, but he knew that losing her job right now, on top of being pregnant, would be devastating. Trying to point that out to Ryoma would be fruitless, since Ryoma was too lost in his own world view to know how much she was probably hurting.

Instead, Tezuka pushed back from the table, bending down to collect Neko, who purred loudly at his touch. "Can you picture your life without her?" he asked quietly as he stood. "It's very hard to let go of someone who's been part of your life. It's like letting go of a part of yourself."

"Sometimes we have to cauterize a wound to keep it from getting infected," Ryoma returned, and his face was that of an adult Tezuka didn't know.

"Yes, but doing so leaves scars, and sometimes those scars don't heal," Tezuka replied. He turned to walk into his office, to escape, but Ryoma stopped him.

"Did yours?"

"I thought they had, but people seem determined to rip the scabs open." 

"Did you love him?" Only Ryoma would be so intrusive, and he was the only person Tezuka would seriously consider the question for. 

"I don't know."


	4. My Comfort Will Guide You and Make You Believe

An unpleasant ringing woke Tezuka from his slumber. While it wasn't unusual for him to be woken by ringing, the sound wasn't quite right to be his alarm clock. Half-blind without his glasses, he fumbled around as his fuzzed mind processed that yes, it was his phone demanding his attention as the red numbers on his alarm clock starkly proclaimed that it was in fact 3:19 a.m. 

If it was a wrong number, he would use his caller ID to give the number to a telemarketer, he vowed as he tossed his warm blankets off and was hit by a blast of cold air. If it was a right number, and someone wasn't dead, he would do the same. Tezuka finally found the phone in the stained pockets of yesterday's pants, and managed to answer it. "Hello." 

Atobe's amused drawl met him. "It's 3:30 in the morning, and do you know where your kohai is?" 

Tezuka was still too befuddled with sleep to process what Atobe meant. "Atobe..." he said. 

Rich laughter bubbled down the line, and Tezuka, fed up, just hung up. He found hanging up on annoying people the most effective method - usually they got the hint. There were the ones like Inui, who seemed to derive perverse pleasure from it, but those were the exception. 

The phone rang again, and he debated not answering, but he knew that Atobe would keep calling until he did. Atobe was persistent. 

“This is Tezuka.” 

“Really, Tezuka. You need to work on your phone etiquette,” Atobe said condescendingly. 

He was not in the mood for putting up with banter. He glanced over at his bed, figuring he could squeeze in another three hours of sleep if he managed to get rid of Atobe. “What do you want?” 

“I suggest you check on Ryoma.” 

Tezuka didn’t bother. Atobe sounded way too smug, the slight sing-song indicative of exactly what Tezuka would find. 

“He’s gone, isn’t he?” 

“Give the man a cigar,” Atobe said. 

“How do you know where Echizen Ryoma is at 3:22 in the morning? Shouldn’t you be in bed with your wife?” At the moment, all he wanted was to go back to sleep. If Atobe knew where Ryoma was, Tezuka figured the situation would work itself out – preferably at a decent hour. 

“Meow. You’re getting cranky in our old age, Tezuka,” Atobe said. “And as to why I know, it’s because I’m the one who bailed him out of jail.” 

A thousand thoughts ignited in Tezuka’s head like a grenade striking the ground, and it took several moments for him to discard the waste the revelation left in its wake. Sorting things through, he realized a few essential facts. 

One: Ryoma had been arrested, which meant he had been doing something illegal. Two: Atobe was somehow involved, either as a part of the incident or as a witness. Three: Ryoma was famous so the press would be all over it. 

“Have any reporters...” 

“I’ve already paid a few substantial bribes to have the matter erased from the record, and make people develop some convenient cases of amnesia.” Atobe paused. “We really shouldn’t be discussing this over the phone.” 

“Where are you?” 

“I’ve sent a driver. Sorry about the new outfit I promised — it’s going to have to wait till tomorrow. You understand, I expect you to wear it? Ja.” Then he hung up. 

He wasn’t sure if the German-speaking Atobe was saying “yes” in answer to his own question or abbreviating “ja ne...” 

Tezuka just wanted to sort out the whole mess. Hopefully Ryoma hadn’t caused any permanent damage. He supposed he would find out shortly. 

As he slipped into his clothes, Tezuka wondered if Atobe was going to be bailing his second person out of jail before the day was done. When he got his hands on Ryoma, he was going to strangle him.

* * *

Tezuka was deposited in front of one of Atobe’s apartment buildings less than forty minutes later. A man had picked him up in a discrete car, one that lacked the flash of the vehicles Atobe usually preferred. The driver said nothing as he navigated the streets with much more care than Atobe would have employed. The building was one that Atobe owned and kept a penthouse in, along with a mistress. Tezuka couldn’t remember her name; Atobe switched them about once a year. 

The security guard was well trained in what not to notice. A man coming in at 4 a.m. after being dropped off by one of Atobe’s employees was on that list. He merely nodded to the express elevator before returning his eyes to the security cameras. 

Tezuka felt like he was entering a surreal world, where sounds were all slightly hushed and everything was cloak and dagger. The elevator seemed like a gate to some mysterious place, and he wondered what kind of reality would lay behind it.

There were two penthouse apartments, and he couldn’t remember which one was Atobe’s. As he stepped off the elevator into the small lobby, he stared back and forth thoughtfully.... before ringing the first. Atobe was never second to anyone. 

The door was immediately flung open by a platinum blonde wearing a rather racy lingerie outfit. She didn’t look Japanese, he thought, since the hair seemed natural. Blue eyes blinked at him for a second before sweeping him in a long, slow appraisal, lingering on his groin. A slight smile sprang to her lips, but before she could speak, Tezuka heard Atobe call out. 

“Tezuka, is that you?” 

“Yes.” 

“Marie, let him in.” 

The blonde stepped away, but not far enough that Tezuka couldn’t avoid brushing by her. 

“Excuse me?” he asked, but Marie merely smiled at him. 

“Yes?” 

“You’re in my path.” 

“You can squeeze by.” 

“There’s no reason to.” 

Tezuka felt like he was dealing with a cat who saw him as a particularly amusing toy. The exchange might have continued, but Atobe’s voice cut through like a knife. “Stop giving Tezuka a hard time, Marie. I need to talk to him.” 

“Spoilsport!” she called, but finally relented, winking at him playfully as she gracefully stepped aside. 

The penthouse was much like any of Atobe’s other properties in that it was obscenely opulent, but the careful eye could understand what its true intention was. Black leather furniture, a rug thrown by a fake fireplace, a few pieces of art off the wall that could be used as convenient handholds — it was obvious this was someone’s love nest. 

“They’re in the bedroom.” She nodded at the door on the left wall, before shifting her robe a bit, though the shift did nothing to make her appearance more modest. He didn’t bother to stare at the additional cleavage she had just exposed, instead bowing his head in thanks before turning to Atobe’s den. 

The room was much like he expected, but he was a bit taken aback by the people inside. The room was deep blue, and as his feet sank into the inch-thick carpet, he saw the four candles which had been lit glowing discreetly off to the side. Tezuka wasn’t particularly fond of cinnamon, but it made the air heavy with the kind of sensuality Atobe lived for. 

Atobe was sitting on an over-stuffed chaise, his legs crossed as he flipped through the pages of some kind of report. His appearance was as immaculate as it had been when Tezuka had bit him farewell yesterday, though he had changed into a more casual outfit that screamed Ralph Lauren. He cocked an eyebrow, before tilting his head slightly to the bed. 

“You really should keep better track of him,” Atobe drawled. He dropped his attention back to the papers in his lap, apparently losing interest. 

Tezuka didn’t want to press at this point. There would be time enough for questions, as soon as he checked on Ryoma. Taking a few quick strides, he knelt down beside the bed. 

It was a dichotomy, seeing Ryoma on the bed. He had passed out – probably from alcohol if the smell was any indication – and was sleeping almost peacefully. A strange androgynous character had been granted to him, perhaps by the unbound hair which was pooled on the satin pillow. The lines of cynicism had been smoothed away from his eyes, and for a second Tezuka could imagine that he was the same boy he had met in junior high. 

Almost. The bruises on his face told a story that this was a person who had been places. He was tempted to brush the bangs away from Ryoma’s face, much in the manner he would deal with a sick child, but Atobe’s presence and his own common sense both stopped him. Sentimentality was something he would never embrace, especially not if he wanted to keep Ryoma’s respect. 

Reassured that Ryoma’s breathing was even and that there seemed to be no permanent damage, Tezuka spoke to Atobe without looking away from his protégé. “What happened?” 

“Bar fight. How cliché,” Atobe’s derision was searing. 

“Were you involved?” 

Atobe sigh was extremely pained. “Really, Tezuka. I had a friend who’s on the police force call me. Hiyoshi recognized him and didn’t want to have to deal with the stress of the press finding out Echizen Ryoma had been booked on a drunk and disorderly. He called me, and I sorted it out. A problem avoided for everyone involved.” 

“Why is he here?” 

“Reporters know not to follow me here. If they print anything, I’ll sue them for invasion of privacy,” Atobe explained, and there was a rustling sound as the papers were set aside. 

Tezuka turned away from the bed, knowing that Ryoma would probably be sleeping off the alcohol for quite a while. “Atobe, _why is he here?_ ” It wasn’t like Atobe to be altruistic. There was always a reason for his motives, a pay off to his investments. 

Something that might have been fondness glimmered in Atobe’s eyes as he glanced over at the bed. “You’re not the only one with an interest in him,” said Atobe. 

Some might have been tempted to mock, but Tezuka understood. Ryoma had always been something special, something unique. The special charisma that had drawn others to him was parallel to what made Tezuka himself tick – the ability to make people stand still and hold their breath, waiting to see what he would do. When Ryoma was on a court, the world faded to insignificant. 

Looking at his battered charge made Tezuka feel a bit ill. “His opening game is today.” The Japan Open, a tournament which Ryoma was poised to win simply by showing up. 

“I think he’s going to have to withdraw,” Atobe said, and the mockery that so characterized him was notable by its absence. 

Tezuka was glad that Atobe had said it first. “That’s going to make them speculate.” 

Atobe didn’t need to ask who the “them” were. He was all to familiar with “them” – those people who carefully watched his every move, waiting for a misstep so it could be splattered across the gossip pages. It was one of the reasons Tezuka was glad he hadn’t gone pro. He had never dealt well with people approaching his private life, and was really quite awkward when it came to deflecting them. 

The thoughtful expression on Atobe’s face made Tezuka glad that the businessman was there. Atobe could be counted on to know the best way to handle it. Ever the showman, he was a master of the slight of hand, distracting people from the truth so he was able to continue to do whatever he wanted. 

“Call Oishi. and have him make an excuse for Ryoma. That ankle of his, the one he sprained last year, I bet it’s bothering him,” he said after a moment. 

“Oishi’s a surgeon, not a sports medicine expert,” Tezuka replied. 

“So? He’s licensed to practice. Maybe Ryoma was consulting him. Truth is how you spin it.” 

“You’re never wrong, are you?” 

Atobe even managed to snort elegantly. “Of course not. Do you want to wake him up and drag him back?” 

“Can you keep an eye on him… or maybe Mari?” 

“It’s Marie. She’s French.” 

The nice thing about wearing glasses was that it made staring down his nose easier. The look he gave Atobe was enough of a statement. 

“Fine, fine. Marie should be free today. You’ll need to make sure he’d back to your place by noon – the press will be looking for him by then.” 

A slight groan from the bed managed to interrupt them. Tezuka and Atobe’s heads turned in unison as Ryoma shifted, making noises which didn’t translate into any civilized language. 

“Should we wake him?” Tezuka asked. The purpling bruise around Ryoma’s forehead didn’t look that bad, but you could never tell with concussions. 

“Might not be a horrible idea.” Atobe flipped a few of the papers on his lap. “Don’t mind me, I’m just the innocent good Samaritan.” 

No matter what he did, Tezuka knew that he was screwed. Ryoma would resent being treated like a child, but at this point, Tezuka didn’t trust Ryoma as far as he could throw him – and Atobe was deriving far too much amusement out of this situation for Tezuka’s liking. 

Best wake Ryoma up.

A slight shaking of Ryoma’s shoulder elicited several moans, and finally fluttering eyelashes. Tezuka knelt down beside the tennis player so that his face was in Ryoma’s line of sight as he awoke. 

It was a very, very bad idea. 

Ryoma groaned, and as the dimmed light hit his eyes, he demonstrated exactly what his low tolerance of alcohol resulted in. 

Atobe had practically laughed himself sick as Tezuka was forced to borrow a set of clothing from him, since Ryoma had managed to vomit all of Tezuka. It had taken a good hour to clean up (with Atobe’s maid service quickly coming to the rescue about the bed and carpet), but around six, Tezuka finally managed to leave. 

He had paused on the doorstep, remembering what day it was. “Atobe?” 

Atobe had still been smirking, a bit amused at the sight of Tezuka in his wardrobe. “What?” 

“Happy birthday.” Never let it be said that Tezuka couldn't be slyly malicious. 

There was a second before Atobe responded. “Do you know I had actually forgotten about that for a few hours? Maybe I do have something to thank the brat for.”

* * *

He _almost_ called in sick, but decided not to let temptation get the better of him. Instead, he decided to use the subway ride a bit more fruitfully, and called someone who could help. 

He wasn’t a huge fan of public transportation, but he found comfort in the anonymity of the crowd. As he selected the number, he shut his eyes briefly, feeling the thrum of the train under his feet, and listening to the steady buzz of soft conversation of the passengers as they talked on their cells or with each other. 

The phone rang a few times before a chipper voice answered it. “Hello! Kikumaru-Oishi residence!” 

Tezuka didn’t have the energy to be polite to the energetic redhead. “Kikumaru, put Oishi on the phone. I need to talk to him.” 

“Huh? What?” Confusion raced back over the phone, and Tezuka realized that Kikumaru hadn’t recognized his voice. He really needed to call more often. 

He heard the sound of a hand covering the phone to muffle the conversation that Kikumaru was probably holding with Oishi, most likely about rude men who wouldn’t even give there names. Finally there was another sound, and Oishi picked up. 

“This is Oishi.” 

“Oishi.” 

“Te-Tezuka!” The voice on the other end of the line was more than a bit taken aback. “I was planning on stopping by this week,” Oishi said, his tone that of someone willing to offer apologies. 

“Oishi, I need your help.” 

“You only need to ask,” Oishi responded, the sincerity in his voice warming Tezuka’s heart. That was the way it was between the two of them. Their friendship might be set aside while they lived their lives, but when they needed the other, things were as they were. The understanding they had for each other transcended anything Tezuka had with anyone else — it was why he considered Oishi his best friend. Oishi was the only person who didn’t push Tezuka to change his inherent nature, but instead helped support it. 

After all, wasn’t a best friend the person who understood and accepted you? 

Tezuka explained the situation with Ryoma and the silence that met him told him that Oishi was considering what to do. 

“I really can’t risk my medical license by writing a false diagnosis, Tezuka.” 

“Do you take any patients in a general practice?” 

“A few. Usually charity cases. Most of what I do is work with the hospital.” 

It would have been ideal to slide Ryoma into Oishi’s care, but Tezuka could see that wasn’t practical. “Dammit.” 

“Have you had him evaluated anywhere?” 

“I think he has a physician somewhere. Ryuuzaki Sakuno was the one who kept track of everything, but he just fired her.” 

“He fired Sakuno-chan?” Shock colored the words as vividly as a scarlet sunrise. 

There was a “click” and suddenly a more fuzzy, distant voice responded. “What the hell is ochibi thinking?” 

“Am I on speaker phone?” Tezuka asked dryly. 

An embarrassed chuckle. “I couldn’t stop him.” 

“This _our_ ochibi, Tezuka! Let us help!” Kikumaru’s voice was stern, the way it had been the few rare times Tezuka remembered seeing him act seriously. “What is up with Ryoma-kun? Ryoma-kun without Sakuno-chan... it’s Clyde without Bonnie!” 

“Do you even know what you’re talking about?” 

“I saw that movie. Um, Batman without Robin. Sailor Moon without Tuxedo Mask....” 

“I don’t think Echizen would look very good in a sailor fuku,” Oishi put in, his voice growing more distant as he apparently moved away from the phone. He was probably trying to address Kikumaru directly, Tezuka realized, but it made it even harder for him to hear. Especially when two people next to him began to use _their_ cells, speaking in loud voices that didn’t care if they were overheard. 

“He has nice legs! Remember, he’s an athlete,” Kikumaru retorted quickly. “He’s always wearing those shorts.” 

“Yes, but a skirt is a bit different.” 

It was unbelievable how quickly the conversation descended into sheer absurdity. He listened to Kikumaru and Oishi debate clothing which got into what Kikumaru was planning on making for dinner, to the exact length noodles needed to be to be slurped properly.

“Ahem,” Tezuka said finally, wondering when he’d fallen down Alice’s rabbit hole. 

The couple seemed to have forgotten their audience. 

“Sorry, Tezuka!” Oishi said, and the repentance in his voice was genuine. “We do want to help.” 

“Is ochibi having a breakdown?” Kikumaru asked. “His position is a lot of stress.” 

Tezuka couldn’t tell them that Sakuno had caused it. It wasn’t his place. “I think it’s more personal than that. I thought I was handling it well, but he managed to get too injured last night to play in the Japan Open today.” 

“How badly?” Kikumaru asked. “Remember the time he played with the busted knee? And the eye thing? What about...” 

“He’s playing professional tennis. It’s not the same thing. He needs to be in top form.” 

“Looks like it’s obvious to me. He should withdraw. There will be other tournaments.” Kikumaru sounded matter-of-fact. “The Japan Open isn’t a Grand Slam, so it’s not going to kill him to give up that title.” 

“Eiji, the press will be all over it. If he’s having a breakdown...” 

“Dammit. Okay, he needs an excuse and Oishi can’t lie for him. Um, how about Kaba-chan?” 

Tezuka didn’t get what they were talking about. “Who’s Kaba-chan?” 

“That’s not a bad idea,” Oishi said at the same time, before replying to Tezuka. “He’s a guy who went through med-school with me. He went to Hyotei with Atobe, actually. Real big man, but one of the gentlest souls you’ll ever meet – and a more tight-mouth man I’ve yet to meet. I think he actually has another tennis player on his books, so it wouldn’t be extraordinary for him to become Ryoma’s primary physician.” 

“Would he be available this morning? Ryoma’s match is at one.” 

“I’ll call in a favor,” Oishi promised. 

“Thank-” Tezuka said, preparing to hang up, but Kikumaru cut him off. 

“Tezuka, you can’t cure just the symptoms. Ryoma needs to deal with his issues.” 

“Spoken like the true psych graduate,” Oishi murmured, but the phone managed to pick it up. 

Tezuka imagined Kikumaru sticking his tongue out in retaliation quickly. “Is there any way you can work to repair what’s wrong with him and Sakuno? She’s pretty forgiving, and knows he can be a jerk.” 

“Trust me when I say we shouldn’t get involved.” 

“Then we need to help him accept what is wrong, and let him know we’re there for him.” A long pause. “Is Momoshiro still not speaking to you?” 

“He never stopped speaking to me, he’s just very uncomfortable.” 

“He had a very hard time accepting Oishi and I were together — having his buchou say he liked guys as well was just too much.” 

Tezuka understood where Momoshiro was coming from. Momoshiro had always been the easiest of them all for him to predict – of all of them, Momoshiro had most embodied what the Seigaku spirit was. “Momoshiro will resolve it in his own time.” 

“It’s been two years!” Kikumaru protested. 

“Years don’t mean the same thing they used to.” 

Kikumaru grumped a bit, but eventually conceded the point. “I’ll call Momoshiro. Ryoma is still pretty close to him.” 

“I’ll talk to him,” Tezuka promised. It would just be a bit of icing on the cake.

* * *

He was amazed that he’d survived the day. Around 6:30, he finally finished his work. He removed his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose to try to relieve some of the tension he felt from there. Shutting his eyes, he expelled a slight breath – too heavy to be called a sigh, but too light not to deserve a special descriptor. A tension headache threatened, and he knew riding the subway home would merely exacerbate matters. 

The door creaked open, and he heard the sound of someone moving – the temp… Nikara. He hadn’t realized that he had absorbed her name, he thought tiredly, wondering if he ignored her if she would go away. 

A set of hands, suddenly on his shoulders, startled him. He hadn’t expected her to be so daring. He was too tired to be anything but blunt, wishing that she would have gotten the hint before it had come to this. “Go away, Nikara-san. I’m gay.” 

“Glad to hear that,” an unexpected voice returned, and then he really was alert, feeling like a deer in the headlights. 

Fuji’s hands stroked his shoulders, attempting to work the tension out. They were still familiar with Tezuka’s body, and knew exactly where the tension built up. Under his shoulder blades and the base of his neck merited special attention, and strong fingers kneaded with business-like efficiency. 

Tezuka said nothing, merely shutting his eyes and letting Fuji do as he wished. He was too tired to start another fight, too tired to do anything except let his mind empty and just enjoy the physical pleasure of having another person touch him intimately. It was hard to suppress his instincts that warned him about turning his back on Fuji Syuusuke of all people, but he managed. For just a few minutes, he could be selfish and pretend that Fuji wasn’t a viper at his breast, but rather a concerned friend – or lover – who recognized the signs on a man stretched nearly to his limits. 

The strokes slowed, and Tezuka sighed a bit as the massage turned into a series of long, tempting caresses. Fabric bunched beneath Fuji’s fingers, and Tezuka found himself pushed forward slightly to permit better access to his back. His head on his forearms, with Fuji stepping around to his right, he let himself be tempted by the false comfort. Hands started to stray to his sides, the intention definitely more to seduce than to relax. 

“You’re so tense, Tezuka,” Fuji said softly, and then lips were pressed to the spot where his collar began. “Old age setting in?” 

It wasn’t his age, he wanted to say. It was Atobe and Ryoma and Fuji. It was people refusing to act like adults, people who refused to listen to reason, who were causing him to feel the physical effects of stress. 

When he didn’t say anything aloud, Fuji laughed softly. “You have some serious stress issues, don’t you?” 

Tezuka cracked his eyes open, turning his head slightly so he could study Fuji. His brown hair was undone, falling past his shoulders in a sleek wave that made Tezuka’s fingers itch to wrap through it, especially when the long sides swept forward across Fuji’s cheeks. Today he was wearing grey slacks and a matching sweater, garb which would have been sedate if not for the precise cut that molded to his body. Tezuka had to remind himself that in spite of the fact he was currently the recipient of a massage, it would be very undignified to grab Fuji and do exactly what he wanted to. 

“Tezuka?” Fuji prompted, leaning forward to trace kisses down Tezuka’s neck, but pulling back abruptly, wrinkling his nose in a bit of disgust. “You smell like Atobe,” he said. 

Tezuka had forgotten about the borrowed suit. “There was an incident this morning that meant I needed to change quickly.” Fuji didn’t need to know anymore than that. He leaned back, pretending to casually stretched as a way to recover from his previous vulnerability. 

“Ryoma,” Fuji said, moving around the desk before claiming a corner as a seat, brushing Tezuka’s papers aside with absentminded confidence. 

“He’s managed to reinjure his ankle,” Tezuka said coolly. 

“Pull the other one. That doesn’t explain why you’re wearing Atobe’s clothes.” 

“I can’t tell you,” Tezuka said. 

“I’ll find out.”

“Not through me.” 

Fuji sighed and looked tired. Tezuka noticed, for the first time, the small lines that were starting to form around Fuji’s eyes. “No matter what’s between us, I would never hurt anyone I care for. You know that.” 

Tezuka looked at the messed up pile of papers on his desk. “You mean you don’t intend to hurt anyone.” 

“I’d rather cut out my own throat.” The serious look on his face nearly made Tezuka swallow, realizing that there was still more to the man he had once lived with. His throat was dry, and he wondered why he felt like he was drowning. 

"I can’t tell you,” Tezuka repeated. It wasn’t his story to tell. 

Fuji slid off the desk, his smile returning, and the clamped-down expression indicating that Tezuka had just managed to alienate him. “I guess some things don’t change.” He came around to Tezuka again, leaning forward to give him a kiss – but instead of capturing Tezuka’s lips, he chastely deposited the kiss on Tezuka’s forehead. “Maybe you should go home. It’s late.” 

“What did you want?” 

“I needed to return this.” Tezuka felt disoriented as a book was pressed into his hands, and Fuji stepped away quickly. “Hope you don’t mind that I read it first, but I think page 75 was particularly interesting.” 

Tezuka didn’t dare turn to that page. All he could do was watch as Fuji left as silently as he came, the cold pressure of the book in his hands the only sign that he hadn’t dreamt the whole encounter.


	5. Wish You Would Step Back From That Ledge

It was time to deal with Ryoma again.

Tezuka wasn't particularly eager to speak to his self-destructive friend, but his sense of responsibility made him go back to his apartment. A very small part of Tezuka was tempted to find somewhere else to crash for the night to avoid another confrontation, but there was no way he was letting himself be chased out of his own home.

Ryoma was sitting on the couch, the remote cradled on his lap as he idly munched on bits of popcorn. The television's light was the only illumination in the room, so Tezuka flipped the switch on his way in.

"Tadaima," he said softly, albeit a bit late.

"Okaeri," Ryoma muttered, squinting at the sudden change in lighting. His eyes were fastened to the screen, a slight frown furrowing his brow. Tezuka checked the television without much interest, noting idly that Ryoma was watching a tennis match. The shot was distant, and he couldn't make out who was playing from where he was standing.

"Anyone you know?"

"Not really. It's Roger Garnett and Harod Chenka," he said. "Both are mediocre at best," Ryoma continued, raising the can on beer sitting next to his lips and taking a long pull. "I should have been playing this game."

"It is the consequence of your own decision," Tezuka replied, wishing Ryoma wasn't drinking. It made him difficult to deal with – well, more difficult than he already was. Ryoma was never easy to handle even on a good day.

"I could've played!" Ryoma protested. The can crunched slightly as Ryoma squeezed it in annoyance.

Tezuka stared at the beautiful shiner Ryoma was sporting. "Perhaps." It was a more diplomatic answer than saying what he really thought.

A fistful of popcorn was thrown at Tezuka. "Bastard."

"When I have to be," Tezuka replied, annoyed because he would have to vacuum up the popcorn later. He stepped around the mess, deftly lifting the bowl off Ryoma's lap and set it aside. Ryoma struggled a bit, but was too intoxicated to maintain control over his normally excellent reflexes.

"Coward..." Ryoma hissed angrily. "You chose the wrong kind of court, Tezuka. You ran because you were scared you weren't as good as everyone thought."

"I made the correct decision for me. You will face that soon as well. A professional player usually only has five years, and you've already been playing for eleven."

"I don't want to live without tennis," Ryoma replied stubbornly. "When you take away my tennis, I don't have anything."

"If you're nothing without your tennis, then you need to examine what you could be. You can't play forever."

"My father did."

"He died young."

The stunned silence that met Tezuka’s point was tangible, and Tezuka wondered if he had pushed the other too far. Ryoma’s face paled, and something approaching misery danced through the amber eyes before it was pushed away, a flat sheen overtaking the usual passion.

"It's a good way to go."

"Dying young leaves a good legend, but it's cold comfort for those who care for you," Tezuka said finally. He didn’t know what else to say. That was always his problem. When he most needed them, words abandoned him for stony silence.

"At least I lived my dream," Ryoma said. "I wasn't afraid to take that chance."

There were other chances that Ryoma hadn't taken, Tezuka thought. He didn't take offense at the barbs, instead picking up the remote and shutting the television off. "You should get some rest," he said calmly.

"I don't need anyone mothering me!"

Tezuka's raised eyebrow was more eloquent than anything he could have said. He looked pointedly at the clock before moving into the kitchen.

He wasn't surprised to hear swearing from the other room. The sound of Ryoma blundering toward the door made Tezuka shut his eyes, his patience being tried to the limit. He didn't want to have Ryoma get drunk again, and he definitely didn't want another call from Atobe at four in the morning.

He let him go. There was nothing else he could do.

* * *

Tezuka was more relieved than annoyed at having to let Ryoma in at three a.m. He'd only had three hours of sleep, and was in a less than pleasant mood at the loud banging on his door waking him. At least Ryoma had come back without landing in jail this time.

Ryoma had been amazingly biddable as Tezuka forced him to remove his shoes before lying down on the couch. The sweet smile he offered as he whispered a sleepy "'yasumi" was particularly endearing. It would have been almost cute, had he not smelled like the inside of a bar after a particularly intense party.

Grimly Tezuka went back to bed, but not before setting his alarm forward another hour and a half. He needed sleep, and going in an hour or two later would be the only way he'd be able to function. He would take it out of Ryoma's skin later.

The alarm still went off far to early. He glared at the clock as though it was lying, but knew he would have to get up, even as loathsome as the thought was.

The shower he took was a bit too cold, but served to wake him up wonderfully. He wouldn't have time to brew any coffee, so he'd have to grab whatever was available in the office. After dressing in a neat suit, he dug his cell out of his suitcase to place a call.

He called Seigaku asking to speak to the math teacher. There were still a few minutes until classes were to start, and he hoped that by catching Momoshiro with little time to spare, it would expedite matters.

Momoshiro answered politely enough. "Hello, this is Momoshiro Takeshi. What can I do for you?"

"Momoshiro, I need a favor."

The silence that echoed down the line was an obvious indicator that Momoshiro, at least, recognized his voice. "Tezuka-buchou?" he said hesitantly. It wasn't surprising that he was wary; they hadn't talked in over a year. It had been awkward when he had found out where Tezuka’s preferences lay, and Tezuka wondered if Momoshiro would ever be able to speak to him comfortably again.

"Yes," Tezuka confirmed. He waited for Momoshiro's reaction, unwilling to admit that he was anything but at ease with his former pupil.

Another long pause, and then Momoshiro spoke again. "What do you need?"

"I need you to look after Ryoma for me," he said.

"Huh?"

"He's a little out of hand right now, and I think he could use some time with his best friend."

Silence hung heavy between them before Momoshiro finally replied. "Is he okay? I heard he had to withdraw from the Japan Open, and I know that would have pissed him off."

"It's not that," Tezuka said honestly. "He's upset about something else." It wasn't his place to tell Ryoma's closet friend about Sakuno and his shattered hopes.

Ryoma lived his life in a constant state of irritation at the stupidity of others, but rarely was upset about whatever life threw at him. Momoshiro heard the words and their implied meaning: something was seriously wrong. "Sure, sure. Should I come over right now? I'll get someone to cover my classes."

Tempted as he was to dump Ryoma immediately, Tezuka knew that wouldn't be the proper step. "Finish work, but come over immediately after. He'll be annoyed if you make too big a deal about it."

"I understand. I'll see if Sumire feels like running a practice to keep her hand in," Momoshiro replied. "Can I have directions?"

Tezuka gave his address, saying that he’d leave a key under his doormat. "You know how he likes to sleep. You might have to wake him since he was up most of last night. Call if you have any problems," he ordered, before giving his cell number. "I'll be at work until about ten."

Hanging up, he glanced at the clock. It was after eight, and he needed to be in the office by nine. He went into work late on Thursdays, but stayed longer than usual. Thursdays were the busiest day since people tended to knock off early on Fridays. 

When he arrived, he found the temp sitting on her desk, holding out a cup of coffee for him. "Tezuka-san, there's a message from Atobe Keigo on your desk," she said, her voice a bit too husky to be called "strictly professional."

His eyes lingered a bit wistfully on the cup she was dangling. "I'll call him," he promised.

"You should also have a voice mail from... well, he didn't give his name," she sounded a bit annoyed. She deposited the cup in his hand, and he offered her a soft "thanks" before taking a sip.

He almost spat the coffee out. She'd put honey in it, of all things. Honey was for tea.

His desk was as neat as he'd left it, with one brilliant pink sticky note standing out in contrast to the two piles of white paper in his in and out boxes. At least the temp had relatively neat handwriting, he noted without much amusement. She did add a little smiley face to the bottom, which he just ignored.

It was after nine, now, and he knew Atobe, too, would be in his office. He didn't need to check the number to dial Atobe's personal line from memory.

"Hello? This is Atobe Keigo's office." The polite voice was familiar. It was Atobe's office manager, a rather nice, middle-aged woman who was the most efficient person Tezuka had ever met. The fact that she was constantly encouraging him to eat the double-chocolate chip cookies she baked weekly and rationed only to people she liked had endeared her to him.

"Reiko-san, this is Tezuka. I think Atobe left a message for me to call him."

"Actually, I did." Her voice didn't sound quite normal. "I think... well, do you have any time?"

"Not really, unless it's urgent." He had a pile of work backed-up already, a less-than-competent temp who wasn't helping matters, and he'd already missed half a day earlier in the week.

"It's urgent," she said, lowering her voice. "Atobe-sama has been..." She cut off, apparently rethinking what she had been about to say. "I think he could use his friend right now," she said carefully.

"Call Oshitari, then. You should have his number." Tezuka wasn't Atobe's friend. They had never been friends. They were rivals and business partners who tolerated each other for expediency's sake.

" _Tezuka Kunimitsu,_ " Reiko said firmly. The emphasis reminded Tezuka of the times he'd upset his mother.

"Can it wait? I have a lot of work I need to clear..." He wondered why his voice resembled a whine more than a question.

"Tezuka-san, please." The command faded a bit. "I'm worried."

It took a lot to shake Ogino Reiko. He'd seen her deftly handle three ringing phones, and training a new assistant while in the middle of a patent lawsuit. If she was worried, there was probably cause for concern.

"I'll be there within the hour," he capitulated. 

"Thank you, Tezuka. I'll bake you a box of cookies later," she promised. The relief in her voice was nearly tangible. He knew it was truly a crisis, if she was going to give him a complete box of treats to himself.

"I'll keep you to that," he replied lightly before hanging up.

He still hadn't shed his outer jacket, so he merely grabbed the cup of coffee and left. His assistant - who was busy wrestling with her computer - looked at him curiously as he returned. "Something's come up. Take messages, and I'll try to get back to people this afternoon. If it's an emergency, try my cell."

She nodded, but Tezuka was already heading for the elevator and didn't hear any reply she might have made.

* * *

Atobe's building always made Tezuka think of the old story about the princess on the glass hill. There was something foreboding about it, challenging people to try to ascend in a superior manner. None would make it to the top except the best. It went without saying that Atobe's office was on the top floor.

Reiko must have been waiting, because her desk was empty, and the way her face brightened on catching sight of him made Tezuka start to worry. She was a chic woman, with a pageboy that attractively framed her face which was starting to bear the signs of her years. The power suit she wore was feminine yet practical, and her fingernails were filed but not polished. She was one of those woman who hadn't broken the glass ceiling, but was content with her position.

Seeing her actually bite her lip as she struggled to explain the situation was definitely a sign nothing good was going on.

He decided to be gracious and spared her. "What seems to be the problem?" 

"I think he spent last night here," she said. "The night watchman saw him come in around nine, and he hasn't left his office since."

"Maybe he got a gift he didn't like," Tezuka replied.

She clenched her fists, missing his subtle sarcasm. "Tezuka-san, do you really think he'd sleep on the couch when he could go to..." she cut off, her discretion called into play. She knew more about Atobe's numerous affairs than Tezuka wanted to imagine. Reiko probably knew Atobe better than anyone. No matter how many flashy secretaries were hired, she always remained as the office manager. 

"It seems he did, though. Is his work load too heavy?"

"Is your workload too heavy?" she shot back. "He could work every hour of the week and there would still be things for him to do. He delegates when he needs to, and we're not under any unusual stress right now."

"What do you want me to do?" Tezuka asked. "I'm his lawyer."

"You're his best friend, though you're both too stubborn to admit it. Tezuka, talk to him!" The lack of honorific was a sign of her frustration. Then she skirted the desk, coming behind Tezuka and giving him a slight push toward Atobe's office. The complete violation of his personal space would have been abhorrent in most people, but Reiko was giving him the look he associated with his mother. 

"Yes, ma'am," he said, feeling a bit deflated. If there was one thing he'd learned, it was not to mess with a woman when she was in "a mood."

Atobe had a corner office, as anyone would have expected. The blinds were currently drawn, and Atobe wasn't at his desk, but rather on the black leather couch. He could tell something was off with Atobe immediately. His clothing, while neat, lacked the usual flare. His customary smirk was absent, and he seemed smaller than usual. He looked older and tired, the radiant charisma that usually surrounded him like a splendid cloak was dulled by pain.

Tezuka stood awkwardly. There was only one thing to say. "You look like hell."

"Hello, Tezuka. It's nice to see you, too. How are you today?" Atobe shot back, his wits still sharp as he made a jab at Tezuka's abruptness.

"Wondering what I'm doing here." He would have turned for the door, but the thought of offending Reiko kept his feet rooted. He studied a plant, noting its leaves were turning brown from over watering.

"Did Reiko tell you to come?" Atobe asked tiredly.

"Yes." Tezuka glanced at the mini-bar, noting Atobe had apparently been partaking. The last thing he needed was another alcoholic on his hands.

Atobe noted where Tezuka's eyes were. "Don't worry, I've only had one. Tempted as I may be, the last thing I'll do is give them the satisfaction of getting drunk." He waved the cup of coffee he was holding in testament. 

"Them?" Tezuka echoed.

"My wife is having an affair with Yuushi."

Tezuka didn't react visibly, although he flinched inside. Oshitari was probably the only person Atobe really, truly trusted with his friendship. "Ah." It was all he could think to say. He was completely out of his depth. What was his supposed to do? Offer a hug? Somehow he knew Atobe would not appreciate the gesture.

The cup in Atobe's hand suddenly exploded against the wall as he through it angrily across the room. His expression started to crack slightly, a bit of the fire that drove him flashing in his eyes. "They fucking betrayed me."

Tezuka hadn't thought Mariko the type to engage in casual affairs. She always doted on her husband, turning a blind eye to his numerous mistresses. She was the ideal trophy wife - until now. 

"How did you find out?"

Atobe rested the base of his palm against his forehead. "Mariko told me. She said she couldn't lie to me anymore. Some birthday gift, eh?"

"Would you rather have been a cuckold?"

"I already am, apparently." The barely leashed anger colored his words vividly. "My wife and my best friend - it'd be such a funny cliché if it wasn't _me._ How could Yuushi do this to me?" Atobe asked, his voice cracking slightly. 

Atobe was obviously more upset over Oshitari's betrayal than Mariko's. "Do you think he would do something like this to deliberately spite you?" Tezuka couldn't see it, but he only knew Oshitari in passing. The man, a political strategist, always struck him as loyal to those he cared about.

"We've always been competitive," Atobe said, "but I trusted him."

 _Trust._ It was something precious which few people were deserving of. "I'm sorry." There wasn't anything else to say. "What are you going to do?"

"She's asked for a no-fault divorce. Mariko said she didn't need any alimony as long as we did it quietly." 

That was a point in her favor. While he knew they had signed a premarital agreement, which heavily penalized Mariko, it could get ugly if she chose to sue. Atobe's indiscretions were easily proven, and the task of dividing his empire would have been nightmarish and had the potential to drag on for years. "Are you giving it to her?" Tezuka asked anyway.

"I have to. There's no way I want our private lives dragged through the courts. Can you imagine the headlines?" Tezuka could. They would be cruel and gleeful, perfect fodder for the tabloids. "Isn't it funny, Tezuka? My wife cheats on me? Doesn't it serve me right for all my affairs?"

There was a kind of delicious irony in the situation, but Tezuka wasn't going to dwell on it. "There is no happiness in taking pleasure at the suffering of others. Atobe, why did you come here instead of to Marie's? Or Riku's?" 

"It's Risa, and right now the last thing I want to do is see either of them. Their false sympathy would only have enraged me." He shut his eyes. "They don't love me, not like I thought Mariko did."

"Do you love her?"

"I don't know what love is," Atobe said. "Narcissism I'll give you, but I do not understand how people can care for each other. I just don't want people not to love me. Tell me, Tezuka, how do you recognize love?"

Tezuka wished he could throw out the explanation. "I'm not the person to ask," he said. 

There was a pregnant pause. "No, you're not," Atobe agreed. "Could you leave me alone? I want some time to myself."

Tezuka was being offered a graceful escape. He knew it was wrong, but he was going to take it. "That's fine. Call me if you decide you want to talk."

Atobe didn't respond, and Tezuka felt utterly helpless as he left the room. As he shut the door, he glanced back to see Atobe staring sightlessly at the remains of the cup.

* * *

Tezuka hated being able to do nothing, but the only thing he could do was go back to his office. The temp must have understood him better than he thought, because she wisely made herself scarce. She didn't even offer him coffee.

It was almost a blessing to be able to submerge himself in legal briefs. His boss, the owner of the business, had assigned him a "special project" in regards to an international patent lawsuit, and he busied himself with studying United States patent code. Millions of dollars could be made or lost, and it was something he needed to take seriously. It also served as a wonderful distraction from what was going on in his personal life.

Around one, his secretary placed a small lunch box in front of him, one which she'd probably made at home. He'd nodded his thanks, and continued to work. The hours went by, and he noticed it was five. Momoshiro had probably gone to get Echizen by now. He wondered how that meeting had gone.

He heard the sounds of the temp made as she shut down the outer office, and vaguely remembered giving her permission to knock off for the night. The shadows were creeping against his walls, and Tezuka realized he was squinting. He was just about to turn on the overhead lights when illumination flooded the room. He blinked slowly as his eyes adjusted. 

"Didn't your mother ever tell you not to read in the dark?" Fuji asked, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed against his chest. 

Tezuka was surprised that he _wasn't_ surprised that Fuji was there. "I probably didn't listen."

Fuji laughed, a sound which ran over Tezuka like velvet. "You? Not listen?" The question was high on the irony. He walked over to Tezuka and plucked the pen out of his hands. "Would you have some time right now?"

"Not really-"

"Good," Fuji said. He grabbed Tezuka's arm and tugged on it rather hard. "That means it's perfect time for a heart-to-heart."

"Fuji, I'm busy," Tezuka replied, trying to reclaim his arm.

"You're always busy. I need to talk to you, and I refuse to take second place to a pile of papers." Fuji grabbed a handful and scanned the top of one. "How do you read this without falling asleep?"

"Experience. I never have to worry about insomnia," Tezuka replied. "Fuji, can we please arrange to talk later? I really need to get this done."

"What time are you expecting to get off?"

"Ten. It's my late night."

"Come to my place after, then."

That would be a mistake, Tezuka knew. "I-" he began to protest.

"If you don't, I'll show up on your doorstep and we'll let Ryoma be our witness." Fuji gave him a saccharinely sweet smile, tilting his head slightly. 

Blackmail. Tezuka did not want Ryoma anywhere near Fuji in his vicinity. He knew Ryoma's respect for him was a fragile thing, and tying the younger man into his private affairs would erode it. Ryoma saw him as an idol, someone who managed to get things right, and he wasn't going to do anything to jeopardize that.

"Fine," he agreed.

Fuji smiled and leaned down to brush a kiss on Tezuka's cheek. "There. That wasn't so hard, was it?" he asked.

* * *

Fuji lived on the sixth of nine floors in a building Tezuka remembered passing a few times. It wasn't that unusual they'd never encountered each other; there were still people in his own apartment complex that he didn't know. The building didn't have a doorman, but it was reasonably up-scale and built within the last twenty years.

Fuji's apartment was much like Tezuka would have expected. It was large, but not imposingly so, and the walls were filled with pictures which Fuji had probably taken himself. A few were of scenic vistas, but most were of people in Fuji's life. There were candids of Yuuta laughing and smiling which probably would have sold for a pretty penny to some women's magazines. There was one of Kawamura and his family, and many of people who Tezuka didn't recognize.

"Can I get you something to drink?" Fuji asked.

"What do you have?" Tezuka was feeling in need of a stiff shot of something with a high proof.

"The usual."

"Coffee would be appreciated," Tezuka said, despite the temptation to ask for brandy. He'd been craving coffee since the morning and the incidence with the honey, and he knew Fuji always made a good brew. Tezuka suspected he'd conned Inui into sharing his secrets. Fuji's coffee was of angelic proportions; Inui's tasted like it had been brewed by God himself.

Fuji nodded, gesturing for Tezuka to take a seat on the couch. He did, sinking a bit into the expensive cushions. Fuji's style, while simpler, rivaled that of Atobe. It was one thing to have money; it was another to be able to display it discreetly in small touches that made life more comfortable. The drapes on the windows were thick but attractive, and the knickknacks that were scattered around help transform the place into a home.

Shutting his eyes, he leaned back, and started to let some of the tension go. From the kitchen he heard the sound of Fuji moving around, the soft chime of glass on a counter top, and the opening and closing of cupboards. Fuji was singing softly, a melody that Tezuka recognized from years ago. It was a nonsense song Fuji's family sang while they worked, with lyrics as changeable as the tasks they were doing. His singing was unselfconscious, with no concern for how young he sounded. _"Find the cookies... find the cookies! There they are! There they are! Now where did I put that coaster? And I put the spoons there! Almost done. Almost done!"_

In another minute, Fuji was back. He balanced the tray on the glass coffee table before taking a seat. To Tezuka's surprise, Fuji took an overstuffed chair instead of sitting next to him on the couch. It was a comfortable speaking distance, but didn't lend itself to intimacy or seduction. 

"The coffee will be ready in a few. You should have told me what was going on with Ryoma." The voice was light, but Fuji's face was full of the careful lack of expression that Tezuka recognized. He was trying very hard to keep a hold of his temper.

"It wasn't any of your business." It was asking for trouble, that reply, but Tezuka sincerely felt that was the truth. 

"Really?" There was a deceptive calmness in his voice. "Since when is one of my closest friends having a nervous breakdown none of my business?"

"It's not a nervous breakdown."

"What else would you call it? He's terribly early for a mid-life crisis."

"He's just not handling the stress very well at the moment. There-"

Fuji interrupted him. "Tezuka, you need to look at him. Really _look._ He's not the fifteen year old kid who idolized you anymore. He's the star of the tennis world. He's the ideal of every kid who picks up a racket or wants to break into pro sports. He's more famous than you'll ever be. He surpassed both of us years ago, and it's only his childhood memories which keep him listening."

"Fame has nothing to do with it."

"Bullshit. You always carry yourself like you expect people to recognize you." Fuji leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees as he stared intensely. "You're used to people respecting you automatically. I have news for you - it's not high school anymore. Ryoma is on the world stage, and you don't know how to guide him anymore."

The words were harsh, and Tezuka felt his slow temper stir. "You know nothing about my relationship with Ryoma. I have also been the best senpai I could for him-"

"It's time for you to admit you don't know what to do with him. Getting him involved with Momoshiro was a good idea, but he needs someone who's willing to smack some sense back into him."

"Like you?"

"If not me, who? You've already tried to make it someone else's problem. Oishi and Kikumaru would just mother him, Inui will start him on a program devoid of emotion, he and Kaidou don't speak anymore, and Taka-san would be helpless. I'm willing to go tell him he's being a brat and he needs to grow up. It's called an intervention, and it's something he's in desperate need of."

"It's his life."

"And we're his friends. You're the only father figure he has left, and he needs you to actually get the guts up and tell him he needs to fix things. He doesn't need comforting - he needs a reality check."

"I'm not his father," Tezuka replied.

"No, you're not. Echizen Nanjirou was an idiot. I never thought you were." Tezuka tried to think of how to explain his position, but there was a faint "beep" from the kitchen. "That'd be our coffee. Wait just a sec," Fuji said.

The break was well-timed, giving Tezuka a moment to gather his thoughts. Fuji was genuinely angry about not being called to help. Once they had all worked together to steer Ryoma when he needed guidance. Now Ryoma only turned to Tezuka, because he knew Tezuka wouldn't rebuke him over his private life. Tezuka didn't get involved directly in anything, like the other members of their former team did. He could appreciate how he'd been manipulated by Ryoma but attached no blame. He probably would have done the same had their situations been reversed.

Fuji, the one who'd always understood relationships and how people worked better than the rest, said it was time to step up and draw the line. He was probably right - but doing so might cost him more than he was willing to pay. 

The clink of china interrupted his thoughts as Fuji set a cup in front of Tezuka on a coaster. The coffee was as strong as he'd hoped. They sat in silence, the argument unvoiced as they nursed their coffee.

"What do you want him to accomplish now?" Fuji asked. "What do you hope for him?"

Once Tezuka would have replied with grand ambition, of how Echizen's tennis would change the world. It already had.

"I want..." Tezuka hesitated.

"Yes?"

"I want him to be happy," Tezuka said. "I don't like to see him suffering."

Fuji studied him carefully. "Life is about suffering. It's how we're able to recognize joy in those brief moments we grasp it."

Tezuka opened his mouth to argue, but lack of rest finally caught up to him. An embarrassing yawn slipped from his lips, and Fuji sighed. "You need sleep. You're letting yourself be run into the ground over this. You should just stay here tonight."

Tezuka grew wary. "I don't-"

"Just to sleep. You're looking drawn. You can't be everyone's pillar if you collapse yourself. The guest room's the door to the right." He smiled again comfortingly. "I think you need somewhere to stay away from your problems."

It had been only a few days of intense stress, Tezuka wanted to protest, but Fuji had already removed the cups and was in the kitchen. There was really no point in arguing, since Fuji would win like he always did. Tezuka sighed, took his glasses off, and headed for bed.


	6. I Am Here Tonight

The scent of cooking eggs wafted through the air, but Tezuka pulled the blanket over his head, deciding to get just another ten minutes. The mattress was soft without being squishy, and he had been so tired he'd barely remembered to undo a couple of buttons and ditch his tie the night before. 

Then full consciousness assaulted him, reminding him where he was, and almost fell out of bed in his haste to leave. The light slanting in from the window indicated it was well past dawn. He needed to get out before he wound up in another fight with his host.

"Tezuka? Are you awake?" he heard Fuji's voice call through the door.

Tezuka didn't answer, looking around for where his sock had landed. He always kicked them off as he slept, and there was no way he would leave anything of his behind. With Fuji, he knew it would come back to haunt him at the most embarrassing moment conceivable. 

"Tezuka? Are you alive?" There was an exasperated edge to Fuji's words now. Tezuka had never been an easy riser, despite training himself to get up with sun while in school. As he got older, he found more and more excuses to steal an extra ten minutes or hour.

He was digging through the blankets, frustrated that the black sock was evading him. "I'll be out in a minute," he replied, mostly to keep Fuji from barging right in.

"Breakfast will get cold, so hurry up."

Tezuka had no intention of staying for breakfast. He swore softly, a luxury he only allowed himself when he was alone or truly upset, and the sock appeared, hiding between sheet and comforter. He shook it out, slid it on, and glanced in the mirror. His hair was in a bit of a disarray, and he smoothed his hands over it in an attempt to give it some semblance of order.

His finger stung with static electricity, and he decided it was hopeless. He glared at his reflection, as though that would magically solve his problem. His reflection just glared back at him, and he couldn't stand to see the accusation in his own face, so he turned away, deciding that there was nothing to be done except face Fuji as he was. He didn't have anything to be ashamed of – it's not like they had slept together.

He opened the door, peering out cautiously. Fuji wasn't in the living room, so maybe...

"Tezuka, good morning," Fuji said, practically materializing in front of him. He was holding a rather well-used looking spatula, and Tezuka frowned as he tried to identify what Fuji had been cooking. "Would you like some toast with your eggs?" he asked.

"Fuji, I have to get going-"

"You need to eat, and we need to finish our conversation. If you like, we can delay it, but I don't think that would be wise." The pleasant expression he wore was at odds with the coldness his voice assumed. 

Tezuka bowed his slightly in defeat, conceding the battle. Having another venomous exchanged with Fuji would just take too much out of him. Wordlessly, he took the seat closer to the door, waiting to be served. Fuji hummed happily as he slid the food onto the plates.

Fuji's cooking hadn't improved that much, Tezuka recognized as a cheese and mushroom omelet was scraped off the pan in front of him. It didn't smell bad, but there was something about it that had him making sure he had a glass of water. A bite confirmed his suspicions. Fuji had put wasabi in the eggs. Only his prior experiences with what Fuji considered decent meals kept him from spitting it out. 

"You like?" From most people, that would have been sarcasm, but Fuji genuinely enjoyed cooking and feeding others. It was a pity he was so bad at it.

"It's interesting," he said diplomatically. That was technically the truth, after all. Tezuka reached for the glass of water, drinking a third of it with resolve. By his calculations, he had to clear at least half his plate before he could beg off. He didn't intend to start a fight over something as silly as Fuji's culinary disabilities.

"I've been practicing."

Tezuka gave a nod, letting Fuji take that as he would. He wouldn't lie to compliment the food, but there was no reason to be hurtful.

Fuji's answering smile was sweet, without the sharpness that made Tezuka so wary. Now and then, he would see shades of the boy whom he had met, way back in middle school. He used to wonder sometimes where that boy had gone. "It's pretty bad, isn't it?" Fuji asked, lowering his eyes a touch ruefully.

"Better than before," Tezuka said delicately.

Fuji laughed at that, covering his hand with his mouth. "You really know how to give a backhanded compliment, don't you?"

"I learned from the master," he deadpanned.

"Touché," Fuji acknowledged, giving him a toast with his orange juice glass before setting it down in favor of his fork. 

They ate quietly for several minutes. Tezuka worked more on rearranging the food on the plate than actually ingesting breakfast, and he realized Fuji was quite aware of what he was doing. It was a polite compromise for both of them that Fuji said nothing when Tezuka finally pushed his plate away. "I need to get going," he announced. "Thank you for breakfast."

Fuji set his fork down, before studying Tezuka's face. "When was the last time you had a vacation?" Fuji's hand touched a circle under Tezuka's eyes, tracing the lines that were starting to form on his skin with a gentle index finger. It was too intimate, the gesture of a lover.

"Last year." He didn't draw away, even though most people would have been smacked for so rudely invading his personal space. Fuji had always pushed past his comfort zones.

Fuji looked a bit startled. "Oh?" Disbelief highlighted his voice.

"Yes." He wasn't about to admit he took vacation time during that two-week bout with the flu.

Fuji just smiled sadly, and Tezuka knew his hedging had probably been seen right through. "Before you can take care of anyone else, you need to take care of yourself."

He thought about arguing his self-sufficiency, knowing it would rile Fuji into an argument. Maybe if they fought, the other man would get the hell out of his life, and Tezuka could return to his quiet monotony. "I always take care of myself."

"No, you don't. We always used to say that Oishi was the team mother, but it was really you. You still haven't grown out of the habit of thinking you can make everything all right." 

"I don't believe that," Tezuka said. If anything, this last week had been a lesson in how much he couldn't control.

"Really." Fuji shook his head. "I didn't ask you here to fight with you."

"Then leave me alone," Tezuka said shortly. He pushed the chair away from the table and stood, turning his back to Fuji because he couldn't stand to look at the face of temptation.

"I can't," Fuji replied. "No matter how I try to find someone else, I always end up comparing them to you. I'm not willing to settle for second-best. I know what I want, and that's you. From the way you react to me, I'd wager you still want me too. Don't you think there's a chance we might try to make it work?"

Tezuka turned around to deny what Fuji was proposing, but the words stuck in his throat. He couldn't help but stare into Fuji's eyes, more open and honest than he'd ever seen them. He opened his mouth, but no words would come. His feet were backing him toward the door, and he exited hastily without offering a reply.

Tezuka wondered when he'd become a coward.

* * *

At work, he fought a losing battle with his laptop. He'd hit start, and wait... and wait. Tezuka knew his machine was on the older side of good, but didn't have any desire to replace it. It had taken him _years_ to learn how to deal with all the quirks of this particular machine, and he dreaded having to get a new one. He was not particularly tech savvy.

He eyed the window longingly, wishing he could work up the nerve to just throw it out the window. He would enjoy watching it crash to the pavement, but it was doomed to remain an idle wish as his common sense won out. He needed to sort through his e-mail, which was thankfully a fairly mind-numbing pursuit. It took enough concentration to keep him busy, to avoid thinking of Fuji and how tempted he'd been to agree. It was a matter he would have to deal with later, but for now he could compartmentalize his job and pretend that his problems were insignificant.

No one had commented on how he was wearing the same suit he'd worn the day before, but his temp had given him hurt-puppy eyes. She obviously thought he'd spent the night with someone and was now beyond her reach. He didn't do anything to explain himself, despite her lingering looks at his clothing the two times she had brought in tea.

It was a ordinary way to be spending his last day before leaving his twenties behind. He wondered if he should be going out and rebelling or arranging to get a motorcycle. He could find a gigolo for himself, or maybe have a crisis of conscience and decide he needed to work for some kind of non-profit agency and leave the corporate world of capitalism behind. He started to consider moving to Alaska and becoming a member of a fishing boat, since he had always enjoyed the outdoors. There were tons of options to pursue, away from Tokyo.

He was distracted from his uncharacteristic thoughts by the temp. "Excuse me, Tezuka-sama? There's an Oishi Syuuichiroh on the phone for you," she said, leaning her hip against the door frame. Her arms were crossed under her breasts, elevating them to form an ample cleavage she clearly meant for him to admire. 

He just looked at her face. "Patch him through," he said. "And next time, use the intercom."

She pouted, disappointed at losing an excuse to flirt, before vanishing back into the outer office. Thirty seconds later, the phone on Tezuka's desk rang. He picked it up immediately.

"Hi, Tezuka? It's Oishi." 

He made a sound that might have been acknowledgment, and when Oishi didn't reply, decided he'd have to result to actual language. "Is something wrong?"

"I wanted to check on Ryoma. I called you last night, but you must have been in bed or something."

"I went to sleep early. I think he spent the night with Momoshiro." He felt like he was lying to his parents, but there was no way he'd admit he'd stayed at Fuji's. "Hopefully Momoshiro will have more luck with him than I did."

He heard Oishi sigh. "If anyone can, it's Momoshiro," he said.

"Hopefully."

There was a lull in the conversation. Tezuka had never been good at finding topics to discuss; his pragmatic approach to life eliminated much of the small talk most people took for granted. He knew his abruptness made others uncomfortable, but that was the way he was. 

"Would you like to come over for lunch on your birthday, if you haven't made any other plans?" Oishi asked before the silence grew too long to break.

Tezuka smiled softly since there was no one there to see him. "As long as you guarantee it's not a surprise party," he said.

"Eiji wanted to throw one, but I talked him out of it," Oishi answered. "It'll just be us, and maybe a couple of the old gang if they're free. I promise it won't involve people jumping out at you."

"Thank you," he said, relieved that he wouldn't have to face an onslaught of unwelcome attention. The idea of what Kikumaru considered a "good party" made his head hurt. 

They hung up without bothering to say goodbye.

Tezuka managed to finish the project he'd been working on early. He glanced at the clock, noting that it wasn't even three o'clock. Since it was a Friday, most people had a tendency to sneak out early, taking an early weekend. Tezuka normally stayed until at least five, but for once his restlessness got the better of his strong sense of duty. 

Walking out of his office, he looked at the temp. She was sitting at her desk, a slightly bored expression on her face which she quickly concealed under a look of intense interest. "Tezuka-sama, do you need anything?" she said, startled. 

"I'm leaving for the day. You can go, if you like," he said. He decided to gracefully ignore the web site that she was currently browsing, one which was most definitely not work related. His secretary was due back Monday, and he could be gracious. "Thank you for your time here, Nikara-san. I'll be sure to tell the agency your work was satisfactory." 

She blinked slowly as she processed the dismissal. "I've enjoyed working here, Tezuka-san. If you ever have an opening..." she trailed off.

"I'll keep you in mind," he agreed, lying through his teeth. 

He watched her pack up to leave, shoving her personnel items into a large, stylish bag. She was dressed in a skirt too short to be appropriate for the office, and the top two buttons on her blouse were undone, hinting at the marvelous cleavage beneath it. Finally the last item was away, and they walked toward the elevator together after he shut the lights off.

The ride down was uncomfortable. He could see her looking at him out of the corner of her eye, and he hoped the elevator would hurry. He refrained from glancing at his watch because it would be rude, but he wanted the moment to end.

"You know, now that I'm no longer your employee, it wouldn't be improper to invite me out for a drink," she said, staring at him boldly.

"I prefer men," he said, finally deciding to just tell her the truth.

"Let me try to change your mind," she said assertively. There was no shame in her voice. "Let's get a drink at the bar on the corner and just talk. I'm not looking for commitment, just a good time, Tezuka-sama."

Normally he would have shut her down cold, but the memory of his morning came flooding back at her words. A surge of recklessness sparked inside of him. "Fine," he agreed impulsively. As soon as he said it, he wondered what the hell had gotten into him, since he wasn't into casual dating. In fact, he didn't even like Nikara.

She smiled at him happily, her eyes glittering with delight. He knew that going out with her was not a good idea from both a personal and professional standpoint, but it was hard not to find her genuine pleasure charming. The elevator came to a stop, and they stepped out together. 

When they reached the front door of the building, Tezuka held it open for her, and she giggled as she walked by, brushing against his arm playfully. "You're such a gentleman."

"I try," he replied. They stood on the sidewalk for a moment, and he knew if he was going to back out, now was the time. "Which way?" he asked instead.

She linked her arm through his, and he let her. "Follow me," she said.

They went to a bar he often passed but never entered. He found the atmosphere tasteful, the lighting soft without appearing dismal. They found seats in the lounge, and Tezuka was uncomfortably aware how vacant the place was. Only the most devoted drinkers started at three in the afternoon.

The server was too young to keep his face completely blank, a slight quirk in his lips indicating that he was new enough to find potential office romance amusing. Tezuka gave him a cold look, and the younger man swallowed visibly before remembering his job. "What can I get you?" he asked them.

"A Manhattan," Tezuka said.

"Sex on the beach," Nikara said.

"Can I see some I.D., miss?" the server asked Nikara.

She laughed, and pulled a tiny purse out of her bag, opening it to reveal a plastic-covered photo id. Tezuka noted that she was just twenty, a whole decade younger than he was. He felt old, not an uncommon experience, but this time it made him a bit uncomfortable. He tried to remember the last time someone had asked him for I.D., and drew a blank. Even when he'd just turned twenty, no one had ever bothered. 

After the server left, Nikara turned her attention to Tezuka, her smile soft and inviting. "Why did you decide to become a lawyer?" she asked.

"It seemed like the thing to do," he replied with a shrug. He couldn't remember making a conscious decision to go into law; it had been a natural progression. He'd never thought on what he'd do with his future, instead following the path set before him by others. 

"Just like that?" she asked, and she looked a bit disappointed. "Here I was hoping for a story about how you'd found your destiny in our legal system." She winked playfully, taking the implied sting away from her words.

"I don't dislike it," he replied. The server returned carrying their drinks, and Tezuka took a healthy swig, wincing at the sweet taste. He should have remembered to ask for bitters. Still, it was in front of him, and he wasn't going to send it back. He'd never sent anything back.

Nikara sipped more daintily, but her shoulders relaxed and she shifted slightly, a more provocative posture that offered an impressive view of her shapely breasts. "But you don't love it," she replied. "When I find a permanent job, I want it to be something I really like. You know what they say, if you love your work, you never work a day in your life."

Tezuka had heard variations of that saying, but didn't subscribe to it. He shrugged, unable to voice his thoughts coherently. Work was work, and it was part of his life. He couldn't think of another way for things to be.

Tezuka always found dating a trial since he was a poor conversationalist. One of his dates had once joked that speaking to him was like interviewing for a job: direct questions, concise answers, and little small talk. They remained quiet since Tezuka couldn't think of anything to say, and Tezuka found the bottom of his glass. He considered reordering, but that would only prolong this experience.

Unlike most of his past dates, Nikara didn't appear bothered by his lack of interaction. She watched him, not lasciviously, and he gained the impression that she was enjoying being around him. He couldn't understand why. "Why do you bother pursuing someone you know doesn't want you?" he asked, breaking the silence.

She set her glass down, tipping her head to the side as a smile played on her face. "We only live once, Tezuka-sama," she replied. "I want to make sure I live life to its fullest. There's so many people who spend too much time worrying about what others will think, and about all the things that could go wrong. I prefer to take a chance, hoping I'll be pleasantly surprised."

Her words struck a chord inside of him. He'd always done what was expected, always taken the path that met with least resistance. He didn't mind working hard, but he'd never been one to take leaps of faith. "And when something goes wrong?" he asked.

"There's few mistakes that can't be rectified with time," Nikara replied. "And even if something doesn't work out the way I would like, I usually can find something good in the situation. I guess you could call me an optimist."

"I've always preferred to be practical," Tezuka replied.

"Doesn't that get boring?" she asked. 

"It's safer," he replied.

"If we all lived safely, then nothing would ever be accomplished," she said. "Sometimes we see something we want, and we have to take the chance it won't blow up in our face." The invitation in her smile was obvious, and she reached out to touch his hand.

He pulled it back, slowly enough so it didn't seem like he was revolted, but with definite intent to communicate a lack of interest. "I'm sorry," he replied. "I've led you on." He reached into his wallet to get money to cover their drinks.

"No, you didn't," she admitted. Her smile faded a bit, but her shoulders shifted in a philosophical shrug. "I figured it was worth the chance."

He wanted to apologize again, but that would have been more insulting. "If I ever need a temp, I'll call your agency," he said instead, hoping the polite lie would work as an apology. He figured it would take Hikaru a week to compensate for the mess she'd made through her incompetence, but he couldn't think of anything less suggestive to say.

"No, you won't," she said, and the small smile on her lips indicated she was better at reading him than she believed. "But it's sweet of you to lie for me."

He threw a large bill on the table, deciding to buy her next few drinks. From the way her eyes were starting to wander, he knew it was a safe wager that she wouldn't lack for company for long. Nikara gave him one final smile then turned her head away with an air of finality.

For a second, he considered sitting back down again, knowing his next move was verging on insane, but he'd had enough of doing that was expected, or taking the easiest route. This was his last night before entering his thirties, and he decided that it was time he did something impulsive. The kind of something that he'd look back on later and roll his eyes about.

He found a cab to bring him home, eschewing the more practical subway route. He didn't want to give himself additional time to fret over what he was doing.

The address he gave the cab driver was not his own, but the route was familiar enough that he could shut his eyes and predict the movement of the car without sight. It was nearly five, and the rush hour traffic made the journey slow to a crawl. 

It gave him too much time to question himself. Impulse was something that was contrary to his nature, and if he did what he wanted to, he might utterly screw up his life. But he was tired of being cautious; if he'd learned anything from Atobe and Ryoma, it was that following expectations didn't always work out well. 

Just this once, he promised himself. 

The car finally arrived at the apartment building, and he over tipped the driver in his haste to get going. He barely remembered the ride up the elevator – then he was standing in front of Apartment 632.

He knocked on the door, knowing that this was insane. He waited several seconds, then heard the sound of footsteps. He could hear the sound of the deadbolt shifting, and then a pair of carefully guarded blue eyes peaked out at him.

"Tezuka?" Fuji said, and he stepped back. His hair was damp from a shower, and he was wearing comfortable clothes. He was probably dressing down for the night; he'd always done that in college, when he hadn't planned to go out.

“Can I come in?” he asked.

“Sure,” Fuji replied stepping aside to let Tezuka enter. “What do you want?”

Tezuka shut the door behind him without a word. “I want to finish what we started,” he said huskily. 

“What?” Fuji asked, looking confused.

Tezuka decided actions spoke louder than words. He'd always been better at _showing_ , not _telling_ what he wanted others to do. He always got lost when trying to express himself verbally, so it would be best to just _act._

Tezuka pushed Fuji against the wall, kissing him harshly. He didn't block Fuji's movement, giving him the opportunity to push him away. Fuji's mouth parted in surprise, but it only took a minute for him to start replying, his tongue stroking Tezuka's leisurely. They kissed for several minutes, before Fuji pulled his head back.

"Tezuka, have you been drinking?" Fuji asked, his voice level. Tezuka would have bought the indifferent pose if he hadn't seen the clear blue of Fuji's eyes starting at him with murky emotions.

Tezuka used his left hand to cup Fuji's face. “I want you,” Tezuka replied. “You want me, and I'm telling you that's good.”

Fuji frowned briefly, but the expression was quickly melted away, and he placed his hands on the back of Tezuka's head, pulling him down for another kiss. He slid his tongue along Tezuka's bottom lip, temptingly. “Then let's move to my room,” he said.

He followed Fuji obediently, hearing the sound of his heartbeat in his ears but only seeing the man in front of him. He didn't take time to take in his surroundings, instead grabbing Fuji by the waist and swinging him onto the bed. Tezuka followed him down, settling his weight on his elbows as he lay across Fuji. He claimed Fuji's mouth for another wet kiss, grinding his hips into Fuji's.

“Slow down,” Fuji said, pulling his head away so he could speak. “If you keep that up, we'll be done before we've really begun.” His hands slipped between their bodies and started to work on unbuttoning Tezuka's shirt. “And we'd probably enjoy this more if we weren't wearing so many clothes.”

Tezuka offered a slight smile of acknowledgment, rolling them over so they were both on their sides. Fuji's shirt had no buttons, so he grabbed the bottom, yanking it upwards. Fuji squirmed obligingly, and the shirt was off. Tezuka threw it over his shoulder, and heard it hit the wall.

Fuji's physique was as toned as it had ever been, and Tezuka's fingers spent a moment reacquainting themselves. He stroked Fuji's warm skin, and then inched down so he could use his lips to follow his hands. 

Fuji was breathing heavily, but he made no protest as Tezuka settled on a nipple and started to suck. He did hiss a complaint when Tezuka started to use his teeth, but the way his hands held Tezuka's head in place gave question to how honest that was.

Five minutes later, all of their clothes were gone, and their tongues and hands were busy caressing. Mischief danced across Fuji's face as he occasionally nipped lightly, and Tezuka retaliated in kind. They'd never indulged in this kind of foreplay, and Tezuka found it a novelty. 

“Do you have anything?” Tezuka demanded, feeling his patience about to break. He was hard, and he was ready, and if Fuji kept _that_ up, he'd embarrass himself like a teenager.

“What?” Fuji asked, before his desired-fogged mind picked up what Tezuka was after. “Condoms and lube are in the night table's drawer.”

Tezuka kissed Fuji quickly, then turned to find them. After digging through assorted odds and ends – sparing a brief thought to question why Fuji had a tennis ball in there – he produced both items. Fuji reached up to take the lube, but he pushed Fuji's hands away. "Let me," he demanded. 

Fuji's lips parted in surprise, the first concrete proof Tezuka had that this wasn't just his insanity, that they were both in unexplored territory. Something flickered across his face – distrust, worry and finally acceptance – and then he raised his arms over his head, allowing Tezuka unprecedented access to his body. 

The gel was slippery on his fingers, and he could feel Fuji's eyes on him as he worked a finger in, and then another. There was something so unspeakably intimate about this touch, and Tezuka realized that this had been one of the reasons they hadn't worked out. Even though they had been fuck buddies during college, they'd never really been lovers.

“Tezuka,” Fuji said intensely, moving his hips against Tezuka's probing fingers. His voice was barely about a whispered groan, but it shot straight through Tezuka's head.

“Are you ready?” Tezuka asked.

“Fuck me,” Fuji ordered, raising his knees and planting his feet. 

It took a minute for Tezuka to deal with the condom, but then he was ready and in position. He met Fuji's eyes – he was still wearing his glasses, another difference – and then made a slow, shallow thrust. Fuji murmured his approval, his hands clutching the bed's headboard. “Harder. I'm not going to break, Tezuka,” he said.

Sex with Fuji usually caused his brain to blank out, but everything was coming into focus for Tezuka this time. He felt Fuji's body beneath him, heard his breathing. He could see Fuji's passion dilated eyes, and feel his willingness every time he met a thrust.

It was the sexiest thing he'd ever seen.

“More, Tezuka,” Fuji demanded. “Harder, faster, just... more.”

Tezuka couldn't turn down that kind of request. He increased his pace, watching the tension in Fuji's arms as he clung to the headboard. He felt a familiar tension gathering, and realized what was about to happen.

“I'm going to come,” he said.

“Do it,” Fuji said, and then shifted his legs, the movement squeezing Tezuka's cock. Tezuka groaned, and then let himself go, his vision blurring as he climaxed.

It took a couple of moments for Tezuka to gather himself. Smiling, he kissed Fuji quickly on the mouth, before trailing a series of kisses down and down, until he found himself at Fuji's erect cock. Fuji gasped as Tezuka took it in his mouth, sucking firmly. Already aroused from intercourse, it didn't take him long to come.

Tezuka slid back up Fuji's body, then gathered him in a loose embrace. With a couple of jerky movements – made awkward by his unwillingness to relinquish his hold on Fuji – he managed to maneuver them under the bed covers. 

Fuji chuckled softly, before reaching up to tug the glasses off Tezuka's face. With a playful, satiated smile, he tossed them onto the nightstand, before wrapping his arms around Tezuka. Within minutes, they were both asleep.


	7. A Change In My Life

He awoke feeling more comfortable than he had in years. Fuji slept beside him, an arm thrown around Tezuka's waist possessively. Tezuka took a second to enjoy the feel of skin-on-skin, the intimacy of just lying with a lover. He stared down at Fuji's face and wondered why he'd been avoiding this for so long.

Fuji's eyes opened slowly, and Tezuka was struck by how very blue they were. "Happy thirtieth, Tezuka," Fuji murmured as he wrapped an arm around Tezuka's neck for leverage, so he could kiss him. "Would you like an early present?" he asked as he pulled away.

Tezuka's breath quickened at the suggestion, but he had to decline. “I can't stay,” he said softly. He had things he needed to take care of; he'd been running from his responsibilities for too long. He hoped Fuji wouldn't take it the wrong way. “I've got to finish sorting out the mess I made with Echizen.”

“I know. I can never keep you,” Fuji said, using his lashes to protect whatever his eyes were saying. “You always go ahead, leaving me behind.”

Tezuka brushed the strands of tangled hair away from his lover's face before placing a kiss against Fuji's forehead. “But I come back, don't I? Oishi and Kikumaru are planning on treating me to lunch today, about noon at their place. Give Kikumaru a call and let him know you're coming. You can be my date.”

It was a spur of the moment suggestion, but Fuji's reaction told him it was the right one. An emotion that Tezuka might have called wonder flashed through those blue eyes, quickly augmented by lazy amusement. "You do realize what they'll read into that."

Tezuka shrugged, then set about looking for his shirt. "Kikumaru always has an overly active imagination."

"Really." The flat delivery left plenty open to interpretation.

"It's not like I kiss and tell," Tezuka replied. "He can imagine whatever he wants to."

Fuji opened his mouth, but no words came out as he apparently thought the better of it. Instead he shook his head, then leaned forward to kiss Tezuka again. "You need to get going," he said. "I'll see you later."

* * *

He arrived back at his apartment by eight, and fed a yowling Neko. She gave him a glare, turned her tail toward him, and then sulkily went to eat. It would take days to calm her down. She did the best "poor neglected kitty" act he'd ever seen. Anyone would have thought she'd been starving for weeks.

Stepping into the shower, Tezuka turned the facet to its highest temperature. The water hit his back and he hissed slightly as it stung his skin, finding the places where Fuji's nails had accidentally dug into last night. A smile formed on his face as he reached over to get the soap.

When he stepped out ten minutes later, he caught sight of his reflection in the half-length mirror – and couldn't look away. He'd never been narcissistic, not that way Atobe was, but he'd had a certain justifiable satisfaction in his appearance.

Still toned, he noted with pride, but the defined musculature of his youth had faded. He hadn't found any gray – yet – in his hair, but that would come. At least his light hair color would hide those inevitable grays, unlike poor Oishi, who was starting to develop white side-burns.

It was all downhill from here, he knew.

He stepped back into his bedroom to dress for the day, choosing a pair of comfortable pants and a new shirt his mother had sent him as a gift. He was just buttoning his cuffs when he was interrupted.

"Yo, buchou," a voice said from behind him, making Tezuka start. Tezuka manfully restrained the impulse to whirl around hastily, instead snapping the last button into place before turning slowly, not letting Ryoma get the upper hand. He'd forgotten Ryoma had taken the spare key. 

Ryoma's eye wasn't swollen shut, Tezuka was relieved to see, but had developed a truly memorable black and blue coloring around it. It made his normally sulky expression look just a bit more serious, a definite don't-you-dare-fuck-with-me-right-now threat on his face.

Reprimanding Ryoma for invading his bedroom would be useless. "What are you doing back here?" he asked instead, hoping he sounded a bit calmer than he felt. "Weren't you going to go stay with Momoshiro?" Tezuka had been planning on cornering Ryoma there, but he'd apparently lost the element of surprise.

"I was... I am..." Ryoma sounded uncharacteristically confused, running a hand over his face. "I just want... buchou, will you play a game with me?"

It definitely hadn't been anything Tezuka expected. "Ryoma, I haven't played seriously in years. Try Momoshiro, he's in better condition."

"I want to play you," he said. "I've beaten Momoshiro dozens of times."

 _And you still haven't defeated me,_ Tezuka thought. He had never let the younger man win, either in middle or high school, and now it sounded like it was preying on Ryoma's mind. "It won't satisfy you. You're much better than I am now."

He was surprised when Ryoma bowed low with humility. "Please, buchou."

He didn't know if his shoulder would be up to a full game against Echizen. It had healed years ago, but the injury had been one of the reasons for not seeking professional tennis as a vocation. He didn't regret it, but he didn't think it was wise to test the fates. He still remembered the feel of the court beneath his knees, as he collapsed from the searing pain in his shoulder.

But Ryoma hardly ever asked for anything – he usually took what he wanted. It would be cruel to say no. "I suppose," he said.

"Do you still have a racket?" Ryoma asked, his voice a bit lighter with relief. "You can borrow one of mine, if you don't."

"I keep one in the closet," Tezuka said. 

It took him a few minutes to prepare, digging out the supplies that saw less and less use as time marched on. He still enjoyed the sport, but more and more his time was occupied by work. Ryoma waited with uncharacteristic patience, not making sarcastic or goading comments.

And he had to get dressed again, changing into clothes he could exercise in. Tezuka selected the tennis shirt he'd been given as a college graduation gift by his aunt. It was worn in and comfortable, though the violet color was hardly flattering to his complexion. He looked better in earth tones, Atobe had once told him in a fit of annoyance. He didn't care if that was true or not, he liked the shirt anyway.

After he zipped up his duffle bag – making sure to include a fresh bottle of water – he turned to Ryoma. "Shall we?" he asked.

The court was currently unoccupied, which wasn't surprising. They'd hit it at the perfect time – too early for teenagers from school, but late enough to miss the early-morning workout crew. Tezuka was pleased to see they'd have the place to themselves. The last thing he wanted was for a swarm of Echizen's fans to descend.

They set their equipment down on a bench, before stretching slowly to avoid injury. They said nothing until Ryoma dug into his own bag to produce his racket and a container of balls. "I brought the balls this time," Ryoma said, tossing the container to Tezuka. "One set match, I'll give you a three game handicap and serve."

Once, the offer would have been an insult. Now, it was a matter of practicality. Ryoma had far exceeded anything Tezuka had ever done. The challenge was simple: all he had to do was keep Ryoma from breaking his serve.

He knew it was impossible, but Tezuka had never been one to give up before trying. "More than fair," he agreed.

Ryoma shook his head. "If you'd gone pro, you wouldn't need it."

"There's no point in regretting what could have been," Tezuka said. He thought of Atobe, and their conversation a few days ago, and realized it was the truth. Learn from the past, but don't let it linger. The ball bounced once, twice and then Tezuka managed to pull out a creditable serve, satisfyingly close to the edge of the line. It was still far too easy for Ryoma, who returned it cleanly, although without much power. He wasn't playing with his usual fierce edge of competition, and Tezuka wondered if it had been lost or Ryoma was actually being considerate.

Tezuka hadn't forgotten the thrill of a good game, of rising to a challenge. He knew he played well for a casual amateur, but now he was pushing his limits, seeing how far he was from the perfection he'd once chased after blindly.

Ryoma was good, so talented. It was like tennis was a part of him, that he had become the human incarnation of the ideal of the sport. Tezuka didn't manage to take a single game, and it ended in an embarrassing twenty minutes – and that was because Ryoma was being kind. 

They walked over to the coach's bench, which was only occupied by their tennis bags. Tezuka dug into his to pull out his second bottle of water, having drained his first between games. Ryoma pulled a towel out, and dried the sweat from his face.

He knew Ryoma was staring at him, but Tezuka remained quiet, deciding to let Ryoma decide what to say first. "Thank you, buchou," Ryoma said after a long moment. 

"It wasn't a good game," Tezuka felt compelled to admit.

"It was," Ryoma disagreed. "I haven't had such fun playing in... I don't remember when. Somewhere along the way, it just because work. I'd get up, go to my matches, and do whatever was expected of the top tennis star. I lost myself in the scene, not the game."

Tezuka nodded his head, not disagreeing, but not seeing anything worth saying. Ryoma had a pretty accurate view on things all of the sudden, he thought. He watched as Ryoma pulled out a med kit, before producing a pair of scissors, the kind used to cut medical tape.

Ryoma quirked an eyebrow, before huffing with exasperation from Tezuka's silence. "I suppose I should act like the grown up I am and get out of your hair," he said.

The scissors he held flashed, and Tezuka stared, wordlessly, as the long black hair fell beneath the onslaught. Then Ryoma smiled, really smiled. It held no pride or sarcasm, merely a sense of relief. Then he thrust the butchered locks into Tezuka's hands.

Tezuka held the abandoned ponytail in shock. "What do you expect me to do with this?"

"Keep it, donate it to some wigmaker, sell it on E-bay. I don't care. I don't want it anymore." Ryoma's hand trailed over the back of his head where uneven strands ruthlessly curled up. "My neck feels rubbery."

The shorter hair made Ryoma look older, but for Tezuka, it was like looking into the past. He saw Ryoma's confident yet charming smile again, the one he had always worn when they had first met. Somewhere along the way he'd lost it. "What are you doing?" he asked. The hair was silky and smooth in his palms.

Ryoma tilted his head back, staring up at the sky. He was still smiling. "I guess I'm saying goodbye. You told me, after my father died, that I needed to remember that there were other opponents."

"I did," Tezuka said, though he couldn't really remember the conversation that well. He remembered that trying period, when life had all been about tennis. Things had been simpler then, though he wasn't sure they had been better. The memory of the previous night flashed through his mind. He wouldn't want to go back, he decided. No matter how trying his life had become suddenly, he was satisfied with who he was now.

"We're selfish bastards, both of us," Ryoma said. "We want everything to go our way, and we figure it will, just because we're both special. I don't think I ever really accepted that tennis was what I wanted to do for myself."

"I always knew it was what you lived for," Tezuka replied. "I didn't understand why you couldn't see that."

Ryoma snorted. "We always miss what's right in front of our own noses, don't we? For a couple of supposedly smart men, we're fucking stupid sometimes."

Once the use of such filthy language would have prompted Tezuka to frown, or assign a series of laps as punishment. Now he just laughed, realizing the truth in what Ryoma was saying. "Yes, but at least we don't make the same mistake twice," Tezuka agreed. "Now go do ten laps to cool off."

Ryoma gawked at him for a second, before breaking out into laughter. Despite that, he set off at an obedient trot around the court, leaving Tezuka to do his own cool-down stretches. 

Looking to the hair in his hands, he considered throwing it away, but decided against it. The hair had been part of Ryoma, and the past shouldn't be forgotten. Besides – Ryoma was right. There was always E-bay... or maybe it would be a suitable thirtieth birthday gift for Ryoma, when the time came. Tezuka's lips quirked as he tried to think of a creative way to hand it back when Ryoma least expected.

* * *

Even though the day had already seemed quite long, it was barely ten by the time he returned to his apartment. After another shower – which made him feel a bit waterlogged – he glanced at his clock and realized he had an hour and a half to kill before meeting for his birthday lunch.

Ryoma had gone back to Momoshirou's, which left Tezuka alone again. He had missed the quiet, he tried to convince himself as Neko curled into his lap. He tried to enjoy the silence, but felt off-balance. He shouldn't be taking it easy right now, not when so many things were still wrong. He ran his hands over his cat's slightly chunky body. He was just wondering if he should go grab his half-read book when the doorbell rang. 

Tezuka kept his expression carefully blank as he saw the woman on the other side of the door. Atobe Mariko, dressed in a casual sun dress, looked at him wearing a wane smile. "Can I come in, Tezuka-san?"

She was addressing him formally, and he raised an eyebrow. She'd always been overly familiar, a touch too comfortable with him. Now it seemed she had conceded the fight, her usual effervescence restrained into something resembling manners. Tezuka wasn't sure he liked the change; it was an unknown. However he was learning to roll with whatever was thrown at him, and didn't point that out. Instead her asked, "What do you want?" 

He didn't offer to let her in. He didn't want to get involved in Atobe's marital woes more than he already was.

Mariko produced a small package from her purse. It was in a box the size of her fist, wrapped in a blue color that reminded him of Fuji's eyes. Around it was wrapped a white bow made of lace, feminine and inappropriate for its intended recipient, but entirely appropriate for the giver. "I told you I'd drop off your birthday gift," she said softly. "I know I probably should have mailed it so you didn't have to see me, but I wanted to talk to you."

"I can't accept it." He didn't want to be seen as taking her side; they had only had a tentative acquaintance through Atobe, and now that their marriage was over, there was nothing that bound them.

She bit her lip unhappily, before nodding to herself and looking him squarely in the eye. "Please. This will be the last time you see me, unless you suddenly decide to become a divorce lawyer. I want you to have this."

He sighed, and stepped back to let her in. It would be rude to make her stand and wait on his doorstep as he unwrapped the gift. "Come in," he said.

"Thank you, Tezuka-san," she said softly, stepping over the threshold. She turned her head around curiously, taking in the comfortable décor. "Your place is nice," she said, her fingers still tight on the package. 

"Would you like something to drink?" Now that she was in, he was obligated to be a proper host.

"Just water, please. It's unseasonably warm today, isn't it?" she asked as she removed her shoes before stepping into a pair of guest slippers - the same ones Ryoma had been using.

"Have a seat," he told her, wishing she had been wise enough to refuse. This was turning into a regular social visit. She settled down carefully, barely sitting on the edge of the couch, looking prepared to flee at the slightest misstep on Tezuka's part. He grabbed a bottle of water out of the refrigerator to fill a glass, and poured himself a fresh cup of coffee almost as an afterthought. 

When he came back, he took the chair kitty-corner to the couch, angling himself so he could study her face. "Why are you really here?" he asked.

She toyed with the gift, shifting it back and forth in her hands. "I did want you to have this," she said softly, "but I also wanted to beg a favor of you." Her lips tightened in an uncomfortable smile. "I know I have no right to ask anything of you, but I ask you hear me out."

He wondered if she was going to make some request about the divorce, but she surprised Tezuka. "Could you please watch out for him?" she asked. "Yuushi and I, we hurt him so badly, but we still care for him."

He wanted to ask why they had the affair in the first place, but figured it was none of his business. Instead, he settled for a slightly more biting, "It was cruel to do that on his birthday."

"It just happened, I didn't want it to." She took a sip of water, her face pale. "I want to be happy," Mariko said. "I know it's selfish, but I want to be happy."

"You could have worked on your marriage," Tezuka said. "Atobe was fond of you." He hadn't believed it before, but seeing Atobe's pain made Tezuka realize that there had to be some affection on Atobe's part.

She laughed, shaking her head. "I adored him. It's impossible not to be entranced by him. Keigo is so brilliant, like that star you gave him - but just as distant. I used to wonder, sometimes, if he knew anything about me. He had a fantastic memory for things I liked, but he never really wanted to look below the surface. He's a very hard man to love."

Tezuka could understand. Much of what she said was reflected in Atobe's dealings with everyone - his inherent superiority dazzled, but also kept people from believing he was human. He had faults, many of them, but he was so naturally intelligent and charismatic that they tended to be forgotten. 

"You knew that before you married him," Tezuka said instead. He valued the strength of a promise, and marriage was one of the most serious promises a person could make.

"Knowing and understanding are two completely different things," she replied. "I thought I could be happy in a life like that, but then I met Yuushi...." her voice faltered again. "Yuushi and I didn't mean..." she trailed off, apparently changing her mind about what to say. "Sometimes you have to be selfish. If there's one thing Keigo taught me, it was that it was okay to be selfish."

He understood. "I'll do what I can for him," he promised.

Her smile was still brittle, but her shoulders relaxed. "I know you will. I just had... had to ask. It's the only thing I can do for him now." She picked up her glass and took another steadying sip. "Thank you, Tezuka-san."

He felt uncomfortable, and wondered if there was a polite way to get her out of his apartment. "You're welcome."

She picked up the package she had set down previously, leaning across the table to place it in his hands. "Unwrap it," she told him. 

He didn't want whatever she'd selected for him, but he nodded, peeling the tape away first with his fingernails as always. His mother used to save all wrapping paper for possible reuse, and old habits were hard to break. A square jewelry box just a bit smaller than his palm appeared, and he popped the velvet-green lid open before peering inside. Gingerly he lifted the item, amazed.

His hand held up the two-inch antique pocket watch. It was a handsome piece, made of what seemed to be gold, and he could hear the steady tick of the blue-steel hands as they marked off the time. He knew the gift was too valuable to be giving him, a casual friend.

"Mariko-san..." He tried to work up the polite way to return the gift as too extravagant.

"It was made by Charles Frodsham in London back in the 1870's," she said. "It belonged to my father, and I'd like you to have it."

"Your father? Mariko-san, I-"

She shook her head to correct his assumption. "No, no! He's still alive. He just isn't interested in old things. You're traditional and steady. I though an old-fashioned watch would suit you better."

He wanted it. It was rare for him to feel desire for something material, but she had been unexpectedly perceptive in her choice of gift. "Thank you," he said graciously. "Did you ever give Atobe his Rolex?"

"Of course not. He would have broken it dramatically," she said. "Someday when things are better, maybe."

Tezuka didn't think that day would be coming anytime soon. Some of his doubt must have shown on his face, because Mariko gave another laugh that sounded more like a sob. "I can hope, can't I?"

"There's always hope, Mariko-san," Tezuka said. "But it's best if we accept things as they are, and try to move on." He thought of Ryoma, and how easily a person could become fixated.

She opened her mouth to say more, but a polite knock prevented her.

"Come in, it's unlocked," Tezuka invited.

The door swung open seconds later, and Fuji entered the room. His quick blue eyes took in Mariko's presence, and then looked over at Tezuka. "Am I interrupting something?" Fuji asked.

Mariko glanced back and forth between the two of them, before finally giving into her anguish and bursting into tears. Tezuka cringed inside, but luckily Fuji stepped in to handle matters. Fuji walked over and sat beside her, draping a casual arm over her shoulders.

She turned and buried her face against his chest, sobbing like her heart had been broken. Fuji made soothing noises, stroking her back in a circular movement. She just cried harder, but Tezuka noticed that Fuji offered no reassurances, just his presence. Tezuka felt like the third wheel, and wished there was some excuse he could make to absent himself. 

Mariko cried for several minutes before pulling herself back together. "I'm sorry, Fuji-sensei..." she said, before digging her into her purses to pull out a compact. She was a very vain woman, immediately setting on righting the damage her crying jag had done to her make up. 

Fuji pulled away, but his open posture still indicated a willingness to serve as a comfort. "It's alright, Mariko-chan," he said. "I know things aren't easy for you right now."

Tezuka didn't understand how this could happen, how both Mariko and Atobe could be hurting so much over the split. In the end, they would be happier apart – and Mariko was the one who wanted to get divorced in the first place. Tezuka, ever practical, didn't think it needed to be a giant production.

She sniffled a bit more, but her hands were steady as she cleaned up the dark smudges under her eyes where her makeup had run. Her hands were deft, and soon she was back to looking like her usual trophy wife self, except for reddened eyes that would quickly fade.

"I should be going," she said as she click her purse close. She smoothed her hands over her skirt after she stood, straightening out the imaginary creases. "Thank you, Tezuka-san, Fuji-sensei."

Tezuka knew he should make some overture of friendship, a promise to remain in touch, but he couldn't lie. "Good luck, Mariko-chan," he murmured instead.

After the door had shut behind her, they remained quiet. Tezuka held the watch she had given him, with the slight sound of ticking filling his ears. Finally he looked up and met Fuji's eyes, which were half-lidded with thought. "Why is this such a mess?" he asked.

"Because both Atobe and Mariko are human," he replied. "I see it every day; messes that are made because of a failure to communicate, a lack of trust, an undeniable incompatibility."

That demanded some kind of response, but Tezuka couldn't think of anything that didn't sound incredibly stupid. Glancing at the clock, he noticed it was almost time to leave for lunch. But this was a conversation that was long overdue. "Like us," Tezuka said. He didn't look at Fuji's face, instead staring down at his hands.

There was a long silence. "Yes, like us. Most of our problems came from a lack of communication."

"I'm not very good at it," Tezuka replied. "Talking, that is. I figure actions speak louder than words."

"Maybe." Something in Fuji's tone voice sounded a bit wistful, and Tezuka looked at him. His hair was down today, framing his face, and he looked young, almost like a teenager again. "Do you remember when we took that day and went hiking? It would have been... oh, our senior year of college?"

Tezuka hadn't forgotten. "The sunset was particularly spectacular." He remembered the feel of the air as it cooled for the night around them, of wrapping his arms around himself as he tried to preserve just a little extra bit of his body heat. He remembered the feel of Fuji's hand on his, as they walked over the uneven terrain. Fuji, for all his grace, had needed help over the irregular path. 

"We didn't have any agenda, we just kind of meandered up the hill. It was after tennis season, and you and I had both been accepted into university. You relaxed, like I've never seen you relax.." Fuji paused, picking up his tea and taking another sip. "And I thought... this was happiness. I didn't need anything else but the knowledge you were there with me, and trusted me."

Tezuka hadn't thought on it, but that day had been one that had eroded the barriers between former captain and teammate. Not long after, they'd decided to room together during their graduate studies. "Then what happened?" Tezuka ask. "Why didn't you ever say anything?"

"You wanted me to confess, like some kind of middle school girl? I like you, do you like me, too, check yes or no?" Fuji returned. "I didn't know what love was. I didn't know how important you were to me – or maybe I didn't want to admit it. I couldn't control what you think or what you do, and that drove me crazy."

"I wasn't the one who was always dating other people." Tezuka could admit now that had bothered him. More than anything, Fuji's ability to date other people had kept Tezuka away.

"I wanted you to ask me to stop," Fuji replied. "You didn't seem to have any problems with it, though."

"If you were seeking out other people, then you weren't content with me," Tezuka replied. He looked down at his hands again, trying to fight the remembered sting of inadequacy. "We were doomed before we even began."

"Maybe." Another one of those long silences. "Or maybe we just weren't ready. But we've both grown up since then."

Tezuka decided to let his actions speak for him. He rose to take the seat Mariko had recently vacated, reaching out to take Fuji by the shoulders. Fuji tilted his head back and leaned over to kiss Tezuka. His lips were soft and gentle, and Tezuka found himself responding, opening his mouth to deepen the kiss.

It was different than any kiss they'd shared before, reverent and loving. A minute passed, then two, and finally Tezuka pulled away, although he kept his hands in place. "Do you think...?" Tezuka started. "Can this work?"

"Probably not. But we can try, and try again."

Tezuka studied Fuji's face, then steeled his courage before asking the next question. It felt like jumping off a cliff, unsure if he was about to be dashed against jagged rocks. But this was Fuji, and there was no one else in the world he'd rather take a chance on. "Can I call you Syuusuke?"

"Only if I can call you Kunimitsu." Then he smiled, and it was so sweet that Tezuka felt something in his chest clench, something that reminded him why Fuji had always been so important to him. Fuji had been right, years ago, when he'd pointed out that he shook Tezuka out of his comfortable world.

He could live with that. Maybe those meddling matchmakers had a point about the importance of companionship. As he started to undo the buttons on Fuji's shirt, he reflected that this was going to get messy. Love affairs always did – but it would also be worth it. There was more to life than work, after all, and Tezuka was sure that Fuji was about to make his life much more interesting, on a permanent basis. 

They were late for lunch.


End file.
